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¥1T    AND    HUMOR, 


SELECTED  FROM  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


WITH    AN    ILLUSTRATIVE    ESSAY, 


AND   CRITICAL    COMMENTS. 


BT 

LEIGH    HUNT. 


NEW    YORK: 
WILEY  &    PUTNAM,   1 C.  1   BROADWAY, 

1847. 


K.'OiAiosKAD'B  Poi?;er  Press, 
lis  ii"ulion  Ftre<5t 


I- 

1 

PREFACE. 

^.This   book  was  announced  for  publication  last  autumn  ;  and 
fit  would  have  appeared  at  that  time  but  for  a  severe  illness 
c  which  the  editor   underwent   during    the    progress    of    his 
^^■Sto7-ies  from  the  Italian  Poets,  and   the   consequences  of 
'^  which  conspired  with  other  untoward  circumstances  to  delay- 
it  till  now.     What  additional  amount  of  indulgence  there- 
fore may  be  required  by  his  portion  of  the  work,  the  good- 
natured  reader  will  not  withhold.     Luckily,  the  far  greater 
oc  part  of  the  volume  cannot  fail  to  amuse  ;  and  in  order  to 

CO 

5?  make  amends  for  that  absence  of  prose  wit  and  humor 
which  its  limitation  to  verse  rendered  at  once  unavoidable 
and  provoking  (considering  how  much  some  of  the  best  of 

2  the  writers  excelled  in  prose,  often  to  the  far  greater  ad- 
vantaje  of  their  pleasantry),  the  Introductory  Essay  has 
been  plentifully  supplied  with  examples  of  both  sorts. 
Comedy,  indeed,  has  had  comparatively  little  to  say  for  itself 
in  verse,  even  in  Shakspeare.  Wit  and  satire,  and  the  ob- 
servation of  common  life,  want,  of  necessity,  the  enthusiasm 
poetry,  and  are  not  impelled  by  their  nature  into  musical 
utterance.  They  may  call  in  the  aid  of  verse  to  concentrate 
their  powers  and  sharpen  their  effect ;  but  it  will  never  be 
of  any  high  or  inspired  order.  It  will  be  pipe  and  tabor 
music  ;  not  that  of  the  organ   or   the    orchestra.     Juvenal 


vi  PREFACE. 


sometimes  gives  us  stately  hexameters  ;  but  then  he  was  a 
very  serious  satirist,  and  worked  himself  up  into  a  lofty 
indignation. 

One  of  the  perplexities  that  beset  the  Editor  in  his  task 
was  the  superabundance  of  materials.  They  pressed  upon 
him  so  much,  and  he  overdid  his  selections  to  such  an  ex- 
tent in  the  first  instance,  that  he  was  obliged  to  retrench 
two-thirds  of  them,  perhaps  more  ;  and  plenty  of  matter  re- 
mains for  an  additional  volume,  should  the  public  care  to 
have  it.  At  the  same  time,  he  unexpectedly  found  himself 
unable  to  extract  a  great  deal  of  what  is  otherwise  excellent, 
on  account  of  the  freedom  of  speech  in  which  almost  all  the 
wits  have  indulged,  and  which  they  would  in  all  probability 
have  checked,  could  they  have  foreseen  the  changes  of 
custom  in  that  respect,  and  the  effect  it  would  have  in 
bounding  their  admission  into  good  company.  It  was  la- 
mentable and  provoking  to  discover  what  heaps  of  admirable 
passages  the  Editor  was  compelled  to  omit  on  this  account, 
from  the  works  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  down  to  Don 
Juan.  It  was  as  if  the  greatest  wits  had  resolved  to  do  the 
foolishest  things,  out  of  spite  to  what  was  expected  of  them 
by  common  sense.  But  excess  of  animal  spirits  helps  to 
account  for  it. 

Should  health  enough  be  spared  him  (as  change  of  air 
and  scene  has  enabled  him  to  hope),  it  is  the  Editor's  in- 
tention to  follow  up  this  volume  next  year  with  the  third  of 
the  series  announced  in  the  preface  to  Imagination  and 
Fancy  ;  namely,  a  selection,  edited  in  the  like  manner,  from 
tlie  Narrative  and  Dramatic  Poets,  under  the  title  of  Action 
and  Passion. 

The  reason  why  so  much  of  the  book  is  printed  in  italics, 
was  explained  in -the  Preface  above  mentioned  ;  but  to  those 


PREFACE.  vii 


who  have  not  seen  the  explanation,  it  is  proper  to  state, 
that  it  originated  in  a  wish  expressed  by  the  readers  of  a 
periodical  work,  who  liked  the  companionship  which  it  im- 
plied between  reader  and  editor.  Otherwise,  the  necessity 
of  thus  pointing  out  particular  passages  for  admiration  in 
the  writings  of  men  of  genius  is  rapidly  decreasing,  espe- 
cially in  regard  to  wit  and  humor  ;  faculties,  of  which,  as 
well  as  of  knowledge  in  general,  of  scholarship,  deep  think- 
ing, and  the  most  proved  abilities  for  national  guidance, 
more  evidences  are  poured  forth  every  day  in  the  newspaper 
press,  than  the  wits  of  Queen  Anne's  time,  great  as  they 
were,  dreamed  of  compassing  in  a  month.  And  the  best  of 
it  is, — nay,  one  of  the  great  reasons  of  it  is, — that  all  this 
surprising  capacity  is  on  the  side  of  the  Great  New  Good 
Cause  of  the  World,— that  of  the  Rights  of  the  Poor  ;  for 
it  is  only  from  the  heights  of  sympathy  that  we  can  perceive 
the  universal  and  the  just. 

Meantime,  he  is  preparing  for  publication  a  volume  apart 
from  the  series,  and  on  quite  another  plan  ;  its  object  being 
to  produce  such  a  Selection  from  Favorite  Authors,  both  in 
prose  and  verse,  as  a  lover  of  books,  young  or  old,  might 
like  to  find  lying  in  the  parlor  of  some  old  country-house,  or 
in  the  quietest  room  of  any  other  house,  and  tending  to  an 
impartial,  an  unlimited,  and  yet  entertaining  and  tranquilliz- 
ing review  of  human  existence.  It  is  a  book,  he  hopes, 
such  as  Mrs.  Radcliffe  would  have  liked  in  her  childhood  ; 
Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  in  his  old  age  ;  or  Gray  and  Thomson 
at  any  time.  And  all  those  interesting  persons  will  have 
their  part  in  it. 

Wimbledon,  Sept.  22,  1846. 


CONTENTS. 


PAOB 

AN    ILLUSTRATIVE    ESSAY    ON    WIT    AND    HUMOR 1 

SELECTIONS    FROM    CHAUCER,    WITH     CRITICAL    NOTICE 50 

CHARACTERS    OF    PILGRIMS 54 

THE  friar's  tale;  or,  the  summoner  and  the  devil 69 

THE    pardoner's    WAY    OF   PREACHING 79 

THE    merchant's    OPINION    OF   WIVES 80 

GALLANTRY    OF   TRANSLATION 82 

THE    DISAPPEARANCE    OF   THE    FAIRIES 83 

SELECTIONS    FROM    SHAKSPEARE,    WITH     CRITICAL     NOTICE 85 

THE   COXCOMB 87 

UNWITTING    SELF-CRIMINATION 88 

THE    TAMING    OF    THE     SHREW 89 

SELECTIONS     FROM    BEN    JONSON,    WITH    CRITICAL     NOTICE 108 

TO    MY    MUSE 108 

THE    FOX 110 

SELECTIONS    FROM    BEAUMONT    AND    FLETCHER,    WITH  CRITICAL 

NOTICE 124 

THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF   KICKS    AND    BEATINGS 125 

DUKE    AND    NO    DUKE 132 

ANONYMOUS ^"^^ 

THE    OLD    AND    YOUNG   COURTIER 142 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

SELECTIONS    FROM    RANDOLPH,  WITH  CRITIC Ai    NOTICE 145 

FEAR,    RASHNESS,    AND    FOLLY 146 

PRETENDED  FAIRIES  ROBBING  AN  ORCHARD 150 

SELECTIONS  FROM  SUCKLING,  WITH  CRITICAL  NOTICE 156 

THE  CONSTANT    LOVER I57 

THE    REMONSTRANCE 157 

A   SESSION  OF    THE   POETS ]  55 

THE    BRIDEGROOM I53 

THE    BRIDE 1Q4 

SELECTIONS  FROM  BROME,   WITH  CRITICAL  NOTICE 166 

OLD  MEN  GOING  TO  SCHOOL 166 

SELECTIONS  FROM  MARVEL,  WITH   CRITICAL  NOTICE 169 

ON  BLOOD  STEALING   THE    CROWN 170 

DESCRIPTION    OF    HOLLAND 171 

FLECNOE,  AN  ENGLISH   PRIEST  AT  ROME 172 

SELECTIONS  FROM  BUTLER,  WITH  CRITICAL  NOTICE 175 

DESCRIPTION  OF  HUDIBRAS  AND  HIS  EQUIPMENTS 177 

sAiNTSHip  versus  conscience 181 

THE    astrologers 183 

A  statesman's  conversation 183 

heroes  of  romance 184 

self-possession 184 

miscellaneous  passages 185 

caution  against  over-reform 187 

LOFTY  carriage    OF    IGNORANCE 187 

caution  AGAINST    PROSELYTISM 187 

HOLLAND  AND  THE    DUTCH 188 

SELECTIONS  FROM  DRYDEN,  WITH  CRITICAL  NOTICE 1S9 

CHARACTER  OF  LORD  SHAFTESBURY 191 

CHARACTER  OF  THE    DUKE  OF  BUCKINGHAM 194 

FOPPERIES    OF  THE  TIME I95 

THE  CATHOLIC  AND  THE    PROTESTANT  CLERGY 19G 

SELECTIONS    FROM    PHILIPS,  WITH    CRITICAL    NOTICE 199 

THE  SPLENDID    SHILLING I99 

SELECTIONS  FROM  POPE,  WITH  CRITICAL  NOTICE 204 

THE  SYLPHS  AND  THE  LOCK  OF    HAIR 205 

TROUBLES  FROM  BAD  AUTHORS 212 


CONTENTS,  xi 


FAOB 

CHARACTER  OF  THE  DUKE    OF   WHARTON 214 

CHARACTER   OF  ADDISON 215 

CHARACTER  OF  THE  DUKE   OF  BUCKINGHAM 217 

CHARACTER  OF  THE  DUCHESS  OF   MARLBOROUGH 218 

CHARACTER  OF  THE  DUKE  OF  CHANDOS 219 

CHARACTER  OF  NARCISSA 221 

CHARACTER  OF  CHLOE ,  .  •  .  .  222 

THE  RULING  PASSION 223 

SELECTIONS  FROM  SWIFT,  WITH  CRITICAL  NOTICE 225 

THE  GRAND  QUESTION  DEBATED 226 

MARY  THE  COOK-MAID's  LETTER  TO  DR.  SHERIDAN 232 

ANCIENT     DRAMATISTS 233 

ABROAD    AND  AT  HOME 234 

VERSES  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  DR.  SWIFT 235 

SELECTIONS  FROM  GREEN,  WITH    CRITICAL    NOTICE 242 

REMEDIES  FOR  THE    SPLEEN 243 

SELECTIONS  FROM  GOLDSMITH,  WITH  CRITICAL   NOTICE 247 

THE     RETALIATION 248 

THE  HAUNCH    OF    VENISON 252 

SELECTIONS  FROM  WOLCOT,  WITH   CRITICAL  NOTICE 256 

CONVERSATION   ON  JOHNSON,  BT  MRS.  PIOZZI  (THRALE),  AND  MR. 

BOSWELL 257 


*T 


AN  ILLUSTRATIVE  ESSAY 


oisr 


WIT    AND    HUMOR. 


The  facetious  Dr.  Kinw,  the  civilian,  one  of  the  minor,  or  rather 
the  minim  poets,  who  have  had  the  good  luck  to  get  into  the  Col. 
lections,  tells  us,  that  he  awoke  one  morning,  speaking  the  fol- 
lowing  words  "  out  of  a  dream,"— 

Nature  a  thousand  ways  complains, 
A  thousand  words  express  her  pains ; 
But  for  her  laughter  has  but  three. 
And  very  small  ones.  Ha,  ha,  he  ! 

This  seems  to  be  a  very  tragical  conclusion  for  "  poor  human 
nature  ;"  but  the  Doctor  had  probably  been  taking  his  usual 
potations  over-night,  and  so  put  his  waking  thoughts  into  plain- 
tive condition  ;  for  had  he  reflected  on  that  "  art  of  wit"  which 
he  professed,  and  opposed  pleasures  to  pains,  instead  of  '*  laugh- 
ter," as  the  correct  wording  of  his  proposition  required^  he  would 
have  discovered  that  laughable  fancies  have  at  least  as  many 
ways  of  expressing  themselves  as  those  which  are  lachrymose ; 
gravity  tending  to  the  fixed  and  monotonous,  like  the  cat  on  the 
hearth,  while  levity  has  as  many  tricks  as  the  kitten. 

I  confess  I  felt  this  so  strongly  when  I  began  to  reflect  on  the 
present  subject,  and  found  myself  so  perplexed  with  the  demand, 

2 


AN  ILLUSTRATIVE  ESSAY 


that  I  was  forced  to  reject  plan  after  plan,  and  feared  I  should 
never  be  able  to  give  any  tolerable  account  of  the  matter.  I 
experienced  no  such  difficulty  with  the  concentrating  seriousness 
and  sweet  attraction  of  the  subject  of  "  Imagination  and  Fancy  ;" 
but  this  laughing  jade  of  a  topic,  with  her  endless  whims  and 
faces,  and  the  legions  of  indefinable  shapes  that  she  brought  about 
me,  seemed  to  do  nothing  but  scatter  my  faculties,  or  bear  them 
ofl' deridingly  into  pastime.  I  felt  as  if  I  was  undergoing  a  Saint 
Ant])ony's  Temptation  reversed, — a  laughable  instead  of  a  fright- 
ful one.  Thousands  of  merry  devils  poured  in  upon  me  from 
all  sides, — doubles  of  Similes,  buffooneries  of  Burlesques,  stalk- 
ings  of  Mock-heroics,  stings  in  the  tails  of  Epigram,  glances  of 
Inuendoes,  dry  looks  of  Ironies,  corpulences  of  Exaggerations, 
ticklings  of  mad  Fancies,  claps  on  the  back  of  Horse-plays,  com- 
placencies of  Unawarenesses,  flounderings  of  Absurdities,  irresist- 
ibilities of  Iterations,  significancies  of  Jargons,  wailings  of  pre- 
tended Woes,  roarings  of  Lauo-hters,  and  hubbubs  of  Animal 
Spirits ; — all  so  general  yet  particular,  so  demanding  distinct 
recognition,  and  yet  so  baffling  the  attempt  with  their  numbers 
and  their  confusion,  that  a  thousand  masquerades  in  one  would 
have  seemed  to  threaten  less  torment  to  the  pen  of  a  reporter. 

Nor  has  this  difficulty  been  unfelt  before,  even  by  the  pro- 
foundest  investigators.  The  famous  Dr.  Barrow,  who  was  one 
of  the  writers  of  all  otliers  from  whom  a  thoroughly  searching 
account  of  Wit  might  have  been  expected,  both  as  he  was  a  wit 
himself  and  remarkable  for  exhausting  the  deepest  subjects  of 
reflection,  has  left  a  celebrated  passage  on  the  subject,  in  which 
indeed  much  is  said,  and  a  great  many  definite  things  glanced  at, 
but  which  still  includes  a  modest  confession  of  incompleteness. 

"  It  may  be  demanded,"  says  he,  "  what  the  thing  we  speak  of  is,  and 
what  this  facetiousness  doth  import;  to  which  question  I  might  reply,  as 
Democritus  did  to  him  that  asked  the  definition  of  a  man — 'tis  that  which 
we  all  see  and  know :  and  one  better  apprehends  what  it  is  by  acquaint- 
ance, than  I  can  inform  him  by  description.  It  is  indeed  a  thing  so  versa- 
tile and  multiform,  appearing  in  so  many  shapes,  so  many  postures,  so 
many  garbs,  so  variously  apprehended  by  several  eyes  and  judgments,  that 
it  seemeth  no  less  hard  to  settle  a  clear  and  certain  notice  thereof,  than  to 
make  a  portrait  of  Proteus,  or  to  define  the  figure  of  fleeting  air.  Soine- 
times  it  lieth  in  pat  allusion  to  a  known  story,  or  in  seasonable  application 


ON  WIT  AND  HUMOR. 


of  a  trivial  saying,  or  in  forging  an  apposite  tale  ;  sometimes  it  playeth  in 
words  and  phrases,  taking  advantage  from  the  ambiguity  of  their  sense,  or 
the  affinity  of  their  sound;  sometimes  it  is  wrapped  in  a  dress  of  luminous 
expression ;  sometimes  it  lurkcth  under  an  odd  similitude.  Sometimes  it 
is  lodged  in  a  sly  question  ;  in  a  smart  answer  ;  in  a  quirkish  reason  ;  in  a 
shrewd  intimation  ;  in  cunningly  diverting  or  cleverly  restoring  an  objec- 
tion ;  sometimes  it  is  couched  in  a  bold  scheme  of  speech ;  in  a  tart 
irony  ;  in  a  lusty  hyperbole  ;  in  a  startling  metaphor ;  in  a  plausible  re- 
conciling of  contradictions ;  or  in  acute  nonsense.  Sometimes  a  scenical 
representation  of  persons  or  things,  a  counterfeit  speech,  a  mimical  look  or 
gesture,  passeth  for  it.  Sometimes  an  affected  simplicity,  sometimes  a 
presumptuous  bluntness,  gives  it  being.  Sometimes  it  riseth  only  from  a 
lucky  hitting  upon  what  is  strange ;  sometimes  from  a  crafty  wresting  ob- 
vious matter  to  the  purpose.  Often  it  consisteth  in  one  knows  not  what, 
and  springeth  up  one  can  hardly  tell  how.  Its  ways  are  unaccountable 
and  inexplicable,  being  answerable  to  the  numberless  rovings  of  fancy  and 
windings  of  language.  It  is,  in  short,  a  manner  of  speaking  out  of  the  sim- 
ple and  plain  way  (such  as  reason  tcacheth  and  knoweth  things  by),  which 
by  a  pretty  surprising  uncouthness  in  conceit  or  expression  doth  affect  and 
amuse  the  fancy,  showing  in  it  some  wonder,  and  breathing  some  delight 
thereto.  It  raiseth  admiration,  as  signifying  a  nimble  sagacity  of  appre- 
hension, a  special  felicity  of  invention,  a  vivacity  of  spirit,  and  reach  of 
wit  more  than  vulgar  ;  it  seeming  to  argue  a  rare  quickness  of  parts,  that 
one  can  fetch  in  remote  conceits  applicable  ;  a  notable  skill  that  he  can 
dexterously  accommodate  them  to  a  purpose  before  him;  together  with  a 
lively  briskness  of  humor  not  apt  to  damp  those  sportful  flashes  of  imagi- 
nation. Whence  in  Aristotle  such  persons  are  termed  e^rtit^iot,  dexterous 
Men,  and  cvrfiovoi,  men  of  facile  and  versatile  manners,  who  can  easily 
turn  themselves  to  all  things,  or  turn  all  things  to  themselves.  It  also  pro- 
cureth  delight,  by  gratifying  curiosity  with  its  rareness  or  semblance  of 
difficulty  (as  monsters,  not  for  their  beauty  but  their  rarity — as  juggling 
tricks,  not  for  their  use  but  their  abstruseness — are  beheld  with  pleasure) ; 
by  diverting  the  mind  from  its  road  of  serious  thoughts ;  by  instilling 
gaiety  and  airiness  of  spirit ;  by  provoking  to  such  dispositions  of  spirit  in 
way  of  emulation  or  compliance  ;  and  by  seasoning  matter,  otherwise  dis- 
tasteful or  insipid,  with  an  unusual  and  thence  grateful  tang." — Bar- 
row's Works,  Sermon  14. 


It  is  obviou.s  that  many  of  the  distinctions  liere  so  acutely  made 
are  referable  to  the  same  forms  of  Wit,  and  therefore  are  but  dis- 
tinctions of  mode  without  difference  of  matter.  Yet  so  abundant, 
nevertheless,  are  the  varieties  which  he  has  intimated,  that  had 
the  writer  followed  them  up  with  illustrations,  and  so  have  been 
rempted  to  endeavor  at  completing  the  subject,  one  almost  fancies 


AN  ILLUSTRATIVE  ESSAY 


he  might  have  done  so.     But  he  was  truly  in  a  state  of  embarras 
des  richcsscs — of  perplexity  with  his  abundance. 

Locke  followed  Barrow  ;  and  was  the  first  to  discern  in  Bar- 
row's particulars  the  face  of  a  general  proposition.  He  described 
Wit  as  "  lying  most  in  the  assemblage  of  ideas,  and  putting  those 
together  with  quickness  and  variety,  wherein  can  be  found  any 
resemblance  or  congruity,  thereby  to  make  up  pleasant  pictures, 
and  agreeable  visions  in  the  fancy."  {Human  Understanding, 
book  ii.,  chap,  x.)  But  the  necessity  of  fetching  congruity  out 
of  incongruity  itself  is  here  scarcely  hinted  at,  perhaps  not  at  all. 
Addison  first  pointed  it  out  in  his  papers  on  Wit  in  the  Spectator . 
where,  in  commenting  on  this  passage  of  Locke,  he  heightens  the 
properties  pointed  out  by  the  philosopher,  by  adding  to  them  the  re- 
quirements of  Delight  and  Surprise  ;  and  completes  them,  or  at 
least  intimates  their  completion,  by  the  demand  of  Dissimilitude. 
"Every  resemblance  in  the  ideas,"  he  observes,  "is  not  that 
which  we  call  Wit,  unless  it  be  such  an  one  that  mves  Delio-ht 
and  Surprise  to  the  reader" — "  particularly  the  last  ;"  and  "  it 
is  necessary  that  the  ideas  should  not  lie  too  near  one  another  in  the 
nature  of  things  ;  for  where  the  likeness  is  obvious,  it  gives  no 
surprise." — No.  62. 

Upon  this  hint  of  the  great  master,  all  the  subsequent  critics 
have  spoken  ;  such  as  Campbell  in  his  Philosophy  of  Rhetoric, 
Beattie  in  his  Essay  on  Laughter  and  Ludicrous  Composition,  and 
Hazlitt  in  the  remarks  on  "  Wit  and  Humor,"  prefixed  to  his 
Lectures  on  the  English  Comic  Poets.  The  last  in  particular  has 
entered  into  the  metaphysical  portion  of  the  subject,  or  the  in- 
quiry into  the  causes  of  our  laughter  and  entertainment,  with  so 
much  of  his  usual  acuteness  and  gusto,  that  I  gave  up,  in  modes- 
ty, all  attempt  to  resume  it,  beyond  what  a  different  treatment 
might  require.  I  resolved  to  confine  myself  to  what  was  in  some 
measure  a  new,  and  might  at  all  events  be  not  an  undesirable  or 
least  satisfactory,  mode  of  discussion  :  namely,  as  thorough  an 
account  as  I  could  give  of  the  principal  forms  both  of  Wit  and 
Humor,  accompanied  with  examples. 

In  order  to  prepare  the  way,  however,  for  the  readier  acceptance 
of  the  definition  of  Wit,  it  may  be  as  well  to  state  the  cause  of 
Laughter  itself,  or  of  our  readiness  to  be  agreeably  influenced  by 


ON  WIT  AND  HUMOR. 


this  kind  of  exercise  of  the  fancy.  We  are  so  constituted  that  the 
mind  is  willingly  put  into  any  state  of  movement  not  actually  pain- 
ful ;  perhaps  because  we  are  then  made  potentially  alive  to  our  exist- 
ence, and  feel  ourselves  a  match  for  the  challenge.  Hobbes  refers 
all  laughter  to  a  sense  of  triumph  and  "  glory;"  and  upon  the  prin- 
ciple here  expressed,  his  opinion  seen)s  to  be  justifiable  j  though 
I  cannot  think  it  entirely  so  on  the  scornful  ground  implied  b)"- 
him.*  His  limitation  of  the  cause  of  laughter  looks  like  a  satur- 
nine self-sufficiency.  There  are  numerous  occasions,  undoubt- 
edly, when  we  laugh  out  of  a  contemptuous  sense  of  superiority, 
or  at  least  when  we  think  we  do  so.  But  on  occasions  of  pure 
mirth  and  fancy,  we  only  feel  superior  to  the  pleasant  defiance 
which  is  given  to  our  wit  and  comprehension  ;  we  triumph,  not 
insolently  but  congenially  ;  not  to  any  one's  disadvantage,  but 
simply  to  our  own  joy  and  reassurance.  The  reason  indeed  is 
partly  physical  as  well  as  mental.  In  proportion  to  the  vivacity 
of  the  surprise,  a  check  is  given  to  the  breath,  different  in  degree, 
but  not  in  nature,  from  that  which  is  occasioned  by  dashing 
against  some  pleasant  friend  round  a  corner.  The  breath  re- 
cedes only  to  re-issue  with  double  force  ;  and  the  happy  convul- 
sion which  it  undergoes  in  the  process  is  Laughter.  Do  I  tri- 
umph  over  my  friend  in  the  laughter  ?  Surely  not.  I  only 
triumph  over  the  strange  and  sudden  jar,  which  seemed  to  put 
us  for  the  moment  in  the  condition  of  anta2;onists. 

Now  this  apparent  antagonism  is  the  cause,  per  sc,  of  the 
laughter  occasioned  by  Wit.  Our  surprise  is  the  consequence 
of  a  sudden  and  agreeable  perception  of  the  incongruous  ; — sud- 
den, because  even  when  we  laugh  at  the  recollection  of  it,  we 
undergo,  in  imagination,  a  return  of  the  suddenness,  or  the  liveli- 
ness of  the  first  impression  (which  is  the  reason  why  we  say  of  a 
good  thing  that  it  is  always  "  new")  ;  and  agreeable,  because 
the  jar  against  us  is  not  so  violent  as  to  hinder  us  from  recurring 


*  "  The  passion  of  laughter  is  nothing  else  but  sudden  glory  arising  fi'om 
a  sudden  conception  of  some  eminency  in  ourselves  by  comparison  with  the 
infirmity  of  others,  or  with  our  own  formerly  :  for  men  laugh  at  the  fol- 
lies of  themselves  past,  when  they  come  suddenly  to  remembrance,  except 
they  bring  with  them  any  present  dishonor." — Treatise  on  Human  A''a- 
ture,  chap.  ix. 


AN  ILLUSTRATIVE  ESSAY 


to  that  habitual  idea  of  fitness,  or  adjustment,  by  which  the  shock 
of  the  surprise  is  made  easy.  It  is  in  these  reconcilements  of 
jars,  these  creations  and  re-adjustments  of  disparities,  that  the 
delightful  faculty  of  the  wit  and  humorist  is  made  manifest. 
He  at  once  rouses  our  minds  to  action  ;  suggests,  and  saves  us 
the  trouble  of  a  difficulty  ;  and  turns  the  help  into  a  compliment, 
by  implying  our  participation  in  the  process.  It  does  not  follow 
that  everything  witty  or  humorous  excites  laughter.  It  may  be 
accompanied  with  a  sense  of  too  many  other  things  to  do  so ;  with 
too  much  thought,  with  too  great  a  perfection  even,  or  with  pa- 
thos and  sorrow.  All  extremes  meet ;  excess  of  laughter  itself 
runs  into  tears,  and  mirth  becomes  heaviness.  Mirth  itself  is  too 
ol\en  but  melancholy  in  disguise.  The  jests  of  the  fool  in  Lear 
are  the  sighs  of  knowledge.  But  as  far  as  Wit  and  Humor  affect 
us  on  their  own  accounts,  or  unmodified  by  graver  considerations, 
laughter  is  their  usual  result  and  happy  ratification. 

The  nature  of  Wit,  therefore,  has  been  well  ascertained.  It 
takes  many  forms  ;  and  the  word  indeed  means  many  things, 
some  of  them  very  grave  and  important ;  but  in  the  popular  and 
prevailing  sense  of  the  term  (an  ascendency  which  it  has  usurp- 
ed, by  the  help  of  fashion,  over  that  of  the  Intellectual  Faculty, 
or  Perception  itself),  Wit  may  be  defined  to  be  the  Arbitrary  jux- 
taposition of  Dissimilar  Ideas,  for  some  lively  purpose  of  Assimila- 
tion or  Contrast,  generally  of  both.  It  is  fancy  in  its  most  wilful, 
and  strictly  speaking,  its  least  poetical  state ;  that  is  to  say.  Wit 
does  not  contemplate  its  ideas  for  their  own  sakes  in  any  light  apart 
from  their  ordinary  prosaical  one,  but  solely  for  the  purpose  of 
producing  an  effect  by  their  combination.  Poetry  may  take  up 
the  combination  and  improve  it,  but  it  then  divests  it  of  its  arbi- 
trary character,  and  converts  it  into  something  better.  Wit  is  the 
clash  and  reconcilement  of  incongruities  ;  the  meeting  of  ex- 
tremes round  a  corner ;  the  flashing  of  an  artificial  light  from 
one  object  to  another,  disclosing  some  unexpected  resemblance  or 
connection.  It  is  the  detection  of  likeness  in  unlikeness,  of  sym- 
pathy in  antipathy,  or  of  the  extreme  points  of  antipathies  them- 
selves, made  friends  by  the  very  merriment  of  their  introduction. 
The  mode,  or  form,  is  comparatively  of  no  consequence,  provided 
it  give  no  trouble  to  the  apprehension  ;  and  you  may  bring  as 


ON  WIT  AND  HUMOR. 


many  ideas  together  as  can  pleasantly  assemble.  But  a  single 
one  is  nothing.  Two  ideas  are  as  necessary  to  Wit,  as  couples 
are  to  marriages ;  and  the  union  is  happy  in  proportion  to  the 
agreeableness  of  the  offspring.  So  Butler,  speaking  of  marriage 
itself: — 

— What  security's  too  strong 

To  guard  that  gentle  heart  from  wrong, 

That  to  its  friend  is  glad  to  pass 

Itself  away,  and  all  it  has. 

And  like  an  anchorite  gives  over 

This  world  for  the  heav'n  of  a  lover. 

Hudibras,  Part  iii.,  Canto  1. 

This  is  Wit,  and  something  more.  It  becomes  poetry  by  the 
feeling  ;  but  the  ideas,  or  images,  are  as  ditFerent  as  can  be,  and 
their  juxtaposition  as  arbitrary.  For  what  can  be  more  unlike 
than  a  lover,  who  is  the  least  solitary  of  mortals,  or  who  desires 
to  be  so,  and  a  hermit,  to  whom  solitude  is  everything  ?  and  yet 
at  the  same  time  what  can  be  more  identical  than  their  sacrifico 
of  every  worldly  advantage  for  one  blissful  object  ? 

This  is  the  clue  to  the  recognition  of  Wit,  through  whatever 
form  it  is  arrived  at.  The  two-fold  impression  is  not  in  every 
case  equally  distinct.  You  may  have  to  substantiate  it  critical- 
ly ;  it  may  be  discerned  only  on  reflection;  but  discernible  it  is 
always.  Steele  in  one  of  the  papers  of  the  Spectator,  and  in  the 
character  of  that  delightful  observer,  thinks  that  a  silent  man 
might  be  supposed  freer  than  all  others  from  liabilities  to  misin- 
terpretation ;  "  and  yet,"  adds  he,  "  I  remember  I  was  once 
taken  up  for  a  Jesuit,  for  no  other  reason  but  my  profound 
taciturnity." — No.  4.  There  appears  in  this  sentence,  at  first 
sight,  to  be  nothing  but  what  is  exclusively  in  character  with  the 
mute  and  single-minded  Spectator  :  for  even  the  Jesuit  seems  to 
be  rendered  harmless  by  the  charge  of  dumbness.  Yet  as  ex- 
tremes  meet,  and  a  Jesuit  is  always  supposed  to  mean  sometliing 
different  from  what  he  pretends,  a  contrast  of  the  greatest  kind  is 
first  suggested  between  that  crafty  professor  and  our  honest  coun- 
tryman, and  then  doubly  and  ludicrously  impressed  oy  a  sense 
of  the  unmerited,  noisy,  and  public  danger,  to  which  the  innocent 
essayist  was  subjected  in  being  taken  before  a  magistrate. 


AN  ILLUSTRATIVE  ESSAY 


The  case,  I  think,  is  the  same  with  Humor.  Humor,  considered 
as  the  object  treated  of  by  the  humorous  writer,  and  not  as  the 
power  of  treating  it,  derives  its  name  from  the  prevailing  quality 
of  moisture  in  the  bodily  temperament ;  and  is  a  tendency  of  the 
mind  to  run  in  particular  directions  of  thought  or  feeling  more 
amusing  than  accountahle  ;  at  least  in  the  opinion  of  society.  It 
is  therefore,  either  in  reality  or  appearance,  a  thing  inconsistent. 
It  deals  in  incongruities  of  character  and  circumstance,  as  Wit 
does  in  those  of  arbitrary  ideas.  The  more  the  incongruities  the 
better,  provided  they  are  all  in  nature  ;  but  two,  at  any  rate,  are 
as  necessary  to  Humor,  as  the  two  ideas  are  to  Wit ;  and  the 
more  strikingly  they  differ  yet  harmonize,  the  more  amusing  the 
result.  Such  is  the  melting  together  of  the  propensities  to  love 
and  war  in  the  person  of  exquisite  Uncle  Toby  ;  of  the  gullible 
and  the  manly  in  Parson  Adams;  of  the  professional  and  individual, 
or  the  accidental  and  the  permanent,  in  the  Canterbury  Pilgrims ; 
of  the  objectionable  and  the  agreeable,  the  fat  and  the  sharpwitted, 
in  Falstaff;  of  honesty  and  knavery  in  Gil  Bias;  of  pretension 
and  non-performance  in  the  Bullies  of  the  dramatic  poets  ;  of 
folly  and  wisdom  in  Don  Quixote  ;  of  shrewdness  and  doltish- 
ness  in  Sancho  Panza  ;  and  ir  may  be  added,  in  the  discordant 
yet  harmonious  co-operation  of  Don  Quixote  and  his  attendant, 
considered  as  a  pair ;  for  those  two  characters,  by  presenting 
themselves  to  the  mind  in  combination,  insensibly  conspire  to 
give  us  one  compound  idea  of  the  whole  abstract  human  being ; 
divided  indeed  by  its  extreme  contradictions  of  body  and  soul, 
but  at  the  same  time  made  one  and  indivisible  by  community  of 
error  and  the  necessities  of  companionship.  Sancho  is  the  flesh, 
looking  after  its  homely  needs  ;  his  master,  who  is  also  his  dupe, 
is  the  spirit,  starving  on  sentiment.  Sancho  himself,  being  a 
compound  of  sense  and  absurdity,  thus  heaps  duality  on  duality, 
contradiction  on  contradiction  ;  and  the  inimitable  associates  con- 
trast and  reflect  one  another. 

"  The  reason,  Sancho,"  said  his  master,  "  why  thou  feelest  that  pain  all 
down  thy  back,  is,  that  the  stick  which  gave  it  thee  was  of  a  length  to  that 
extent." 

"  God's  my  life  !"  exclaimed  Sancho,  impatiently,  "  as  if  I  could  not 
guess  that,  of  my  own  head  !     The  question  is,  how  am  I  to  get  rid  of  it  ?" 


ON  WIT  AND  HUMOR. 


I  quote  from  memory  ;  but  this  is  the  substance  of  one  of  their 
dialogues.  This  is  a  sample  of  Humor.  Don  Quixote  is  always 
refining  upon  the  ideas  of  things,  apart  from  their  requirements. 
He  is  provokingly  for  the  abstract  and  immaterial,  while  his 
squire  is  laboring  under  the  concrete.  The  two-fold  impression 
requisite  to  the  effect  of  Humor  is  here  seen  in  what  Sancho's 
master  says,  contrasted  with  what  he  ought  to  say  ;  and  Sancho 
redoubles  it  by  the  veiy  justice  of  his  complaint ;  which,  how- 
ever reasonable,  is  at  variance  with  the  patient  courage  to  be 
expected  of  the  squire  of  a  knight-errant. 

1  have  preceded  my  details  on  the  subject  of  Wit  by  defining 
both  Wit  and  Humor,  not  only  on  account  of  their  tendency  to 
coalesce,  but  because,  though  the  one  is  to  be  found  in  perfection 
apart  from  the  other,  their  richest  effect  is  produced  by  the  com- 
bination. AVit,  apart  from  Humor,  generally  speaking,  is  but 
an  element  for  professors  to  sport  with.  In  combination  with 
Humor  it  runs  into  the  richest  utility,  and  helps  to  humanize  the 
world.  In  the  specimens  about  to  be  quoted,  I  propose  to  bring 
the  two  streams  gradually  together,  till  nothing  be  wanting  to 
their  united  fulness.  It  must  be  remembered  at  the  same  time 
(to  drop  this  metaphor),  that  the  mode,  as  before  observed,  is  of 
no  consequence,  compared  with  what  it  conveys.  The  least  form 
of  Wit  may  contain  a  quintessence  of  it  ;  the  shallowest  pun,  or 
what  the  ignorant  deem  such,  include  the  profoundest  wisdom. 

The  principal  forms  of  Wit  may  perhaps  be  thus  enumerated. 

1st.  The  direct  Simile,  as  just  given  ;  which  is  the  readiest, 
most  striking,  and  therefore  most  common  and  popular  form. 
Thus  Swift  in  his  Rhapsody  on  Poetry  : — 

Epithets  you  link 

In  gaping  lines  to  fill  a  chink; 
Like  stepping  stones,  to  save  a  stride 
In  streets  where  kennels  are  too  wide; 
Or  like  a  heel-piece,  to  support 
A  cripple  with  one  foot  too  short; 
Or  like  a  bridge,  that  joins  a  marish 
To  moorland  of  a  difl'erent  parish. 
So  have  I  seen  ill-coupled  hounds 
Drag  different  ways  in  miry  grounds. 
So  geographers  in  Afric  maps 


10  AN  ILLUSTRATIVE  ESSAY 

With  savage  pictures  fill  their  gaps  ; 
And  o'er  unhabitable  downs 
Place  elephants  for  want  of  towns. 

One  of  the  happiest  similes  to  be  met  with  is  in  Green's  poem 
on  the  Spleen.  It  is  an  allusion  to  the  imposture  practised  at 
Naples  by  the  exhibition  of  the  pretended  head  of  St.  Januarius, 
at  which  a  phial  full  of  congealed  blood  is  made  to  liquefy. 
Green  applies  it  to  the  melting  of  Age  at  the  sight  of  Beauty,  and 
gallantly  turns  it  into  a  truth. 

Shine  but  on  age,  you  melt  its  snow; 
Again  fires  long  extinguished  glow, 
And  charm'd  by  witchery  of  eyes. 
Blood,  long  congealed,  liquefies  ! 
True  miracle,  and  fairly  done, 
By  heads  which  are  ador'd  while  on. 

2d,  The  Metaphor,  which  is  but  another  form  of  the  Simile,  or, 
as  Addison  has  defined  it,  "  A  Simile  in  a  Word  y"  that  is  to 
say,  an  Identification  instead  of  Comparison. 

Green  is  remarkable  for  his  ambitious,  and,  generally  speak- 
ing, his  successful  use  of  this  figure  of  speech  : — 

To  cure  the  mind's  wrong  bias.  Spleen, 
Some  recommend  the  bowling-green  ; 
Some  hilly  walks — all  exercise  ; 
Fling  but  a  stone,  the  giant  dies  : 
Laugh  and  be  well.     Monkeys  have  been 
Extreme  good  doctors  for  the  spleen  : 
And  kitten,  if  the  humor  hit. 
Has  harlequin'd  away  the  fit. 

So  in  his  picture  of  the  sourer  kind  of  dissenters  ; — a  descrip- 
tion full  of  wit. 

Nor  they  so  pure  and  so  precise. 
Immaculate  as  their  whites  of  eyes. 
Who  for  the  spirit  hug  the  spleen, 
Phylacter'd  throughout  all  their  mien  ; 
Who  their  ill-tasted  home-brew'd  prayer 
To  the  State's  mellow  forms  prefer ; 


ON  WIT  AND  HUMOR.  11 

Who  doctrines  as  infections  fear 
Which  are  not  steep'd  in  vinegar  ; 
And  samples  of  heart-chested  grace 
Expose  ill  show-glass  of  the  face. 

3d,  What  may  be  called  the  Poetical  Process,  the  Leap  to  a 
Conclusion,  or  the  Omission  of  Intermediate  Particulars  in  order  to 
bring  the'  Two  Ends  of  a  Thought  or  Circumstance  together  ; — as 
in  one  of  Addison's  papers  above  mentioned,  where  he  is  speak- 
ing of  a  whole  Book  of  Psalms  that  was  minutely  written  in  the 
foce  and  hair  of  a  portrait  of  Charles  the  First ; — 

"  When  I  was  last  in  Oxford,  I  perused  one  of  the  tvhiskers ;  and  was 
reading  the  other,  but  could  not  go  so  far  in  it  as  I  would  have  done,"  &-c. 
— Spectator,  No.  58. 

That  is  to  say,  he  perused  that  portion  of  the  book  which  was 
written  in  one  of  the  whiskers ;  but  the  omission  of  this  common- 
place, and  the  identification  of  the  whisker  itself  with  the  thing 
read,  strike  the  mind  with  a  lively  sense  of  truth  abridged,  in 
guise  of  a  fiction  and  an  impossibility.  This  is  the  favorite  form 
of  Wit  with  Addison  j — 

"  There  is  scarce  any  emotion  in  the  mind  which  does  not  produce  a 
suitable  agitation  in  the  fan  ;  insomuch,  that  if  I  only  see  the  fan  of  a  dis- 
ciplined lady,  I  know  very  well  whether  she  laughs,  frowns,  or  blushes. 
I  have  seen  a  fan  so  very  angry,  that  it  would  have  been  dangerous  for 
the  absent  lover  who  provoked  it  to  have  come  within  the  wind  of  it;  and 
at  other  times  so  very  languishing,  that  I  have  been  glad,  for  the  lady's 
sake,  the  lover  was  at  a  sufficient  distance  from  it." — lb..  No.  102. 

In  Addison's  time  it  was  a  fashion  for  ladies  to  patch  their 
faces,  by  way  of  setting  off  the  fairness  of  their  skin  ;  and  at  one 
time  they  took  to  wearing  these  patches  politically  ;  or  so  as  to 
indicate,  by  the  sides  on  which  they  put  them,  whether  they 
were  Tories  or  Whigs.  Accordingly,  by  an  exquisite  intimation 
of  the  superficiality  of  the  whole  business,  he  transfers  the  politi- 
cal feeling  from  the  mind  to  the  face  itself; — 

"  Upon  inquiry  (as  he  sat  at  the  opera),  I  found  that  the  body  of  Ama- 
zons on  my  right  hand  were  Whigs,  and  those  on  my  left  Tories ;  and  that 
those  who  had  placed  themselves  in  the  middle  boxes  were  a  neutral  party, 


12  AN  ILLUSTRATIVE  ESSAY 

whose  faces  had  not  yet  declared  themselves.  *  *  *  i  must  here  take 
notice,  that  Rosalinda,  a  famous  Whig  partizan,  has  most  unfortunately  a 
very  beautiful  mole  on  the  Tory  part  of  her  forehead  ;  which  being  very 
conspicuous,  lias  occasioned  many  mistakes,  and  given  an  handle  to  her 
enemies  to  misrepresent  her  face,  as  though  it  had  revolted  from  the  Whig 
interest."— lb..  No.  SI. 

A  fop,  who  had  the  misfortune  to  possess  a  fine  set  of  mastica- 
tors,  and  who  was  always  grinning  in  order  to  show  them,  was 
designated  by  Horace  Walpole  as  "  the  gentleman  with  the  fool- 
ish  teeth.''  Nothing  of  the  kind  can  be  better  than  this.  It  is 
painting  the  man  at  a  blow,  quick  as  the  "  flash"  of  his  own 
"  ivories."  It  reminds  us  of  the  maxim,  that  "  brevity  is  the  soul 
of  wit ;" — a  questionable  assertion,  however,  unless  by  "  soul  " 
is  meant  a  certain  fervor  apart  from  mind  ;  otherwise  the  soul 
of  wit  is  fancy.* 

4th,  Irony  (Eipcocfia,  Talk,  in  a  sense  of  Dissimulation),  or  Say- 
ing one  thing  and  Meaning  another,  is  a  mode  of  speech  generally 
adopted  for  purposes  of  satire,  but  may  be  made  the  vehicle  of  the 
most  exquisite  compliment.  On  the  other  hand,  Chaucer,  with 
a  delightful  impudence,  has  drawn  a  pretended  compliment  out 
of  a  satire  the  mo.st  outrageous.  He  makes  the  Cock  say  to  the 
Hen,  in  the  fable  told  by  the  Nun's  Priest,  that  "  the  female  is 
the  confusion  of  the  male  ;"  but  then  he  says  it  in  Latin,  gravely 
quoting  from  a  Latin  author  a  sentence  to  that  effect  about  wo- 
mankind.    This  insult  he  proceeds  to  translate  into  an  eulogy  : — 

But  let  us  speak  of  mirth,  and  stint  all  this, 

Madame  Pertelote,  so  have  I  bliss, 

Of  one  thing  God  hath  sent  me  large  grace ; 

For  when  I  see  the  beauty  of  your  face, 

Ye  ben  so  scarlet  red  about  your  eyen. 

It  maketh  all  my  drede  for  to  dyen  ; 

For  all  so  siker  (50  surely)  as  In  principio 

JVIulier  est  hominis  confusio  ; 

(That  is,  "  for  as  it  was  in  the  beginning  of  the  world,  woman  is 
the  confusion  of  man.") 

*  Voltaire  says,  in  his  happy  manner,  "  All  pleasantries  ought  to  be 
short ;  and,  for  that  matter,  gravities  too." — Art.  Prior,  &c.,  in  the  Diction' 
naive  Philosophique. 


ON  WIT  AND  HUMOR.  13 

Madam,  the  sentence  of  this  Latin  is, 

"  Woman  is  mannes  joy  and  mannes  bliss," 

Canterbury  Tales,  v.  15,163. 

The  famous  piece  of  flattery  addressed  by  his  victimizer  to  Gil 
Bias  is  an  irony  in  all  its  glory.  Nothing  can  beat  it  as  an  effu- 
sion  of  impudence,  and  a  lesson.  But  it  is  surpassed  in  depth 
and  dryness  by  Swift's  banter  on  the  Protestant  Nunnery,  a  pro- 
ject meditated  in  his  time  by  a  literary  lady,  or,  as  he  calls  her, 
a  "  Platonne."  It  is  more  impudent  than  the  other,  inasmuch  as 
it  was  a  banter  on  a  living  person,  and  inflicted,  moreover, 
through  the  medium  of  Steele,  who  would  probably  have  rejected 
such  an  attack  on  the  fair  pietist,  had  he  not  been  overpowered 
by  the  M'it  and  assumption  of  his  contributor.  It  is  in  The  Taller, 
then  newly  set  up  (No.  32)  ;  and  is  so  masterly  a  piece  of  ef- 
frontery that  I  must  here  give  the  greater  part  of  it. 

"  Every  man,"  says  the  author,  "  that  has  wit,  and  humor,  and  raillery, 
can  make  a  good  flatterer  for  woman  in  general:  but  a  Platonne  is  not  to 
be  touched  with  panegyric  :  she  will  tell  you  it  is  a  sensuality  in  the  soul 
to  be  delighted  that  way.  You  are  not  therefore  to  commend,  but  silently 
consent  to  all  she  does  and  says.  You  are  to  consider,  in  her  the  scorn  of 
you  is  not  humor  but  opinion. 

"  There  were,  some  years  since,  a  set  of  these  ladies  who  were  of  quali- 
ty, and  gave  out,  that  virginity  was  to  be  their  state  of  life  during  this 
mortal  condition,  and  therefore  resolved  to  join  their  fortunes  and  erect  a 
nunnery.  The  place  of  residence  was  pitched  upon  ;  and  a  pretty  situa- 
tion, full  of  natural  falls  and  risings  of  waters,  with  shady  coverts,  and 
flowery  arbors,  was  approved  by  seven  of  the  founders.  There  were  as 
many  of  our  sex  who  took  the  liberty  to  visit  their  mansions  of  intended 
severity ;  among  others,  a  famous  rake  of  that  time,  who  had  the  grave  way 
to  an  excellence.  He  came  in  first ;  but  upon  seeing  a  servant  coming  to- 
wards him,  with  a  design  to  tell  him  this  was  no  place  for  him  or  his  com- 
panions, up  goes  my  grave  impudence  to  the  maid  ;  '  Young  woman,'  said 
he,  '  if  any  of  the  ladies  are  in  the  way  on  this  side  of  the  house,  pray 
carry  us  on  the  other  side  towards  the  gardens.  We  are,  you  must  know, 
gentlemen  that  are  travelling  England  ;  after  which  we  shall  go  into  for- 
eign parts,  where  some  of  us  have  already  been.'  Here  he  bows  in  the 
most  humble  manner,  and  kissed  the  girl,  who  knew  not  how  to  behave  to 
such  a  sort  of  carriage.  He  goes  on  :  '  Now  you  must  know  we  have  an 
ambition  to  have  it  to  say,  that  we  have  a  protestant  nunnery  in  England  : 
but  pray,  iVIrs.  Betty — '  '  Sir,'  she  replied,  '  my  name  is  Susan,  at  your 
service.'  '  Then  I  heartily  beg  your  pardon — '  '  No  oflence  in  the 
least,'   said  sbe,  '/or  /  have   a  cousin-german  whose  name  is  Betty.' 


14  AN  ILLUSTRATIVE  ESSAY 

'  Indeed,'  said  he,  '  I  protest  to  you  that  was  more  tha7i  I  knew  ;  I  spoke 
at  random.  But  since  it  happens  that  I  was  near  in  the  right,  give  tne 
leave  to  present  this  gentleman  to  the  favor  of  a  civil  salute.'  His  friend 
advances,  and  so  on,  until  they  had  all  saluted  her.  By  this  means  the 
poor  girl  was  in  the  middle  of  the  crowd  of  these  fellows,  at  a  loss  what  to  do, 
without  courage  to  pass  through  them  ;  and  the  Platonics  at  several  peep- 
holes, pale,  trembling,  and  fretting.  Rake  perceived  they  were  observed,  and 
therefore  took  care  to  keep  Sukey  in  chat  with  questions  concerning  their 
way  of  life  ;  when  appeared  at  last  Madonnella,  a  lady  who  had  writ  a  fine 
book  concerning  the  recluse  life,  and  was  the  projectrix  of  the  foundation. 
She  approaches  into  the  hall ;  and  Rake,  knowing  the  dignity  of  his  own 
mien  and  aspect,  goes  deputy  from  the  company.  She  begins  ; — '  Sir,  I 
am  obliged  to  follow  the  servant,  who  was  sent  out  to  know  what  affair 
could  make  strangers  press  upon  a  solitude,  which  we,  who  are  to  inha- 
bit this  place,  have  devoted  to  heaven  and  our  own  thoughts  .''  '  Ma- 
dam,' replies  Rake,  with  an  air  of  great  distance,  mixed  with  a  certain  in- 
difference, by  which  he  could  dissemble  dissimulation,  '  your  great  inten- 
tion has  made  more  noise  in  the  world  than  you  design  it  should  ;  and  we 
travellers,  who  have  seen  many  foreign  institutions  of  this  kind,  have  a  cu- 
riosity to  see,  in  its  first  rudiments,  the  seat  of  primitive  piety  ;  for  such 
it  must  be  called  by  future  ages,  to  the  eternal  honor  of  the  founders :  I 
have  read  Madonnella's  excellent  and  seraphic  discourse  on  this  subject.' 
The  lady  immediately  answered,  '  If  what  I  have  said  could  have  con- 
tributed to  raise  any  thoughts  in  you  that  may  make  for  the  advancement 
of  intellectual  and  divine  conversation,  I  should  think  myself  extremely 
happy.'  He  immediately  fell  back  with  the  prof oundest  veneration  ;  then 
advancing,  '  Are  you  then  that  admired  lady  7  If  I  may  approach  lips  that 
have  uttered  things  so  sacred ' — He  salutes  her.  His  friends  followed  his 
example.  The  devoted  within  stood  in  amazement  where  this  would  end, 
to  see  Madonnella  receive  their  address  and  their  company.  But  Rake 
goes  on — '  We  would  not  transgress  rules  ;  but  if  we  may  take  the  liberty 
to  see  the  place  you  have  thought  fit  to  choose  for  ever,  we  would  go  into 
such  parts  of  the  gardens  as  is  consistent  with  the  severities  you  have 
imposed  on  yourselves.'  " 

We  need  not  accompany  Rake  any  further.  The  reader  will 
have  observed  that  this  story  of  Swift's  is  full  of  Humor  as  well 
as  Wit.  The  best  irony  is  apt  to  be  so,  because  it  is  concerned 
with  human  nature.  Wit  may  be  wholly  turned  on  things  inani- 
mate ;  but  when  you  come  to  sarcasm  and  scorn,  you  come  (as  a 
misanthropist  would  say)  to  mankind. 

There  is  another  form  of  irony  more  surprising  than  this,  or  at 
least  more  startling  ;  for  the  surprise  in  Swift  may  be  said  to  be 
constant.     It  is  when  the  writer  gives  a  comic  turn*  to  an  appa- 


ON  WIT  AND  HUMOR  15 

rently  grave  passage.  It  is  a  favorite  with  the  Italians,  from 
whom  it  has  been  imitated  by  a  writer  who  has  equalled  their 
satirists  in  wit,  and  surpassed  them  in  poetry.  I  need  not  say 
that  I  allude  to  the  author  of  Don  Juan.  I  will  usher  in  a  sam- 
ple or  two  from  that  work  by  a  well-known  passage  from  Tasso- 
ni,  the  author  of  the  mock-heroic  poem  entitled  the  Rape  of  the 
Bucket.  (Secchia  Rapita.)  The  blow  aimed  in  the  concluding 
line  is  at  the  pretended  Petrarehists,  or  herd  of  writers  of  love- 
verses,  with  which  Italy  was  then  overrun  ; — 

Del  celeste  Mouton  gia  il  Sole  uscito 

Saettava  co'  rai  le  nubi  algenti ; 
Parean  stellati  i  campi,  e  il  ciel  fiorito, 

E  sul  tranquillo  mar  dormiano  i  venti ; 
Sol  Zefiro  ondeggiar  fece  sul  lito 

L'erbetta  molle,  e  i  fior  vaghi  e  ridenti ; 
E  s'udian  gli  usignuoli  al  primo  albore, 
E  gli  asini  cantar  versi  d'amore. 

Canto  i.,  st.  G. 

Now  issuing  from  the  Ram,  the  sun  forth  showers 

On  the  cold  clouds  his  radiant  archery  ; 
Earth  shone  in  turn  like  heav'n,  the  skies  like  flowers, 

And  every  wind  fell  sleeping  on  the  sea  ; 
Only  the  Zephyr  with  his  gentle  powers 

Mov'd  the  soft  herbage  on  the  flowery  lea : 
Nightingales  murmur'd  still  their  loves  and  pities, 
And  jackasses  commenc'  d,  their  amorous  ditties 

The  author  of  Don  Juan  is  not  so  merely  abrupt  as  this  ;  the 
step  into  which  he  beguiles  you  is  not  so  jarring  ;  but  what  he 
loses  in  violence  of  surprise,  he  gains  in  agreeableness.  Thus, 
in  speaking  of  the  pedantic  Spanish  lady  ; — 

Her  favorite  science  was  the  mathematical ; 

Her  noblest  virtue  was  her  magnanimity  ; 
Her  wit  (who  sometimes  tried  at  wit)  was  Attic  all ; 

Her  serious  sayings  darken'd  to  sublimity  : 
In  short,  in  all  things  she  was  fairly  what  1  call 

A  prodigy ; — her  morning  dress  was  dimity. 

Canto  i.,  st.  12. 

He  pored  upon  the  leaves,  and  on  the  flowers. 
And  heard  a  voice  in  all  the  winds  ;  and  then 

He  thought  of  wood-nymphs  and  immortal  bowers, 
And  how  the  goddesses  came  down  to  men  : 


16  AN  ILLUSTRATIVE  ESSAY 

He  miss'd  the  pathway,  he  forgot  the  hours  ; 
And  when  he  look'd  upon  his  watch  again, 
He  found  how  much  old  Time  had  been  a  winner — 
He  also  found  that  he  had  lost  his  dinner. 

Canto  i.,  st.  94. 

Epigrammatic  Wit  may  be  held  to  belong  to  this  form  ;  though 
in  general  it  announces  itself  by  its  title  and  brevity,  and  thus 
substitutes  expectation  for  surprise  ; — a  higher  principle  in  great 
things,  but  not  in  small.  Here  follows,  however,  an  epigram  of 
a  very  startling  kind.    It  is  a  remonstrance  addressed  to  a  lady  : — 

When  late  I  attempted  your  passion  to  prove, 

Why  were  you  so  deaf  to  my  prayers  ? 
Perhaps  it  was  right  to  dissemble  your  love  ; 

But  why  did  you  kick  me  down  stairs  1 

This  kind  of  surprise,  in  its  preceding  form,  is  connected  with 
another  species  of  irony,  the  Mock-heroic  in  general,  or  Raillery 
in  the  shape  of  Poetic  Elevation. 

This  nymph,  to  the  destruction  of  mankind, 

Nourished  two  locks. 

Rape  of  the  Lock,  Canto  2. 

Here  thou,  great  Anna,  whom  three  realms  obey. 
Dost  sometimes  counsel  take,  and  sometimes  tea. 

Ibid.,  Canto  3. 

Happy  the  man,  who  void  of  care  and  strife. 
In  silken  or  in  leathern  purse  retains 
A  splendid  shilling. 

Philips. 

Drayton,  in  his  Nymphidia,  or  Court  of  Faery,  has  an  amusing 
description  of  a  rider,  who  turns  and  winds  a  fiery  -'  earwig." 
The  best  mock-heroical  epigram  I  am  acquainted  with  is  one  to 
a  similar  purpose  on  an  ant.     I  quote  from  memory  : — 

High  mounted  on  an  ant.  Nanus  the  tall 

Dared  its  whole  fire,  and  got  a  dreadful  fall. 

Under  th'  unruly  beast's  proud  feet  he  lies, 

All  torn  ;  but  yet  with  generous  ardor  cries, 

"  Behold  me,  gods  !  and  thou,  base  world,  laugh  on. 

For  thus  I  fall,  and  thus  fell  Phaeton. 


ON  WIT  AND  HUMOR.  17 

But  this  species  of  wit  is  too  well  known  to  need  dwelling  up- 
on. It  may  be  useful,  however,  to  observe,  by  way  of  caution 
against  the  mistakes  of  such  students  in  poetry  as  think  "  classi- 
cality  "  everything,  and  wlio  write  a  great  deal  of  mock-heroic 
without  knowing  it,  that  one  of  its  secrets  consists  in  an  applica- 
tion of  old  metaphors,  inversions,  and  other  conventional  and  an- 
cient forms  of  speech  to  modern  languages.  Much  wit  in  prose 
is  enhanced  by  a  scholarly  acquaintance  with  Greek  and  Latin 
etymology,  and  a  corresponding  use  of  words  in  their  primitive 
and  thoroughly  applicable  senses — an  accomplishment  turned  to 
special  account  by  Sydney  Smith.  But  take  away  inversions, 
the  metaphorical  habit,  and  other  Virgilianisms  from  conventional 
poetry,  and  you  destroy  two-thirds  of  the  serious  verses  of  the 
last  century.  They  arc  sometimes  admirably  used,  for  purposes 
of  banter,  by  wits  who  are  guilty  of  the  very  fault  when  they 
become  grave.  Thus  Peter  Pindar,  who  is  as  dull  in  his  serious 
poetry  as  he  is  laughable  in  his  comic  : — 

Once  at  our  house,  amidst  our  Attic  feasts. 
We  likened  our  acquaintances  to  beasts  ; 

(It  is  Boswell,  speaking  of  Johnson.) 

As,  for  example,  some  to  calves  and  hogs, 

And  some  to  bears  and  monkeys,  cats  and  dogs, 

We  said  (which  charm'd  the  Doctor  much,  no  doubt) ^ 

His  mind  was  like  of  e/ephants  the  snout  ; 

That  could  pick  pins  up,  yet  possess'd  the  vigor 

For  trimming  well  the  jacket  of  a  tiger. 

Bnzzy  and  Pioziy. 

And  Dr.  King,  on  the  perils  of  brown-paper  plasters  attendant 
upon  athletic  exercises  : — 

He  that  of  feeble  nerves  and  joints  complains, 
From  nine-pins,  coits,  and  from  trap-ball  abstains  ; 
Cudgels  avoids,  and  shuns  the  wrestling-place, 
Lest  vinegar  resound  his  loud  disgrace. 

Ati  of  Cookery. 

"  Vinegar  resounding  "  is  very  ridiculous  ;  but  not  more  so 
than  the  use  of  the  same  classical  metaphor  on  a  thousand  occa- 


IS  AN  ILLUSTRATIVE  ESSAY 

sions,  where  the  presence  of  Fame's  trumpet  or  the  ancient 
lyre  is  out  of  the  question. 

But  the  most  agreeable  form  of  irony,  especially  when  carried 
to  any  length,  is  tiiat  which  betrays  the  absurdity  it  treats  of  (or 
what  it  considers  such)  by  an  air  of  honlioinie  and  good  faith,  as 
if  the  thing  ridiculed  were  simplest  matter  of  course,  and  not  at 
all  exposed  by  the  pretensions  with  which  it  is  artfully  set  on  a 
level.  It  is  that  of  Marot  and  La  Fontaine ;  of  Pulci,  Berni, 
and  Voltaire.  In  the  elder  of  these  Italians,  and  in  the  two 
oldest  of  the  Frenchmen,  it  is  best  assumed,  as  far  as  regards 
simplicity  ;  but  in  Berni  and  Voltaire  it  is  most  laughable,  be- 
cause by  a  certain  excess  and  caricature  of  indifference  it  gives 
its  cue  to  the  reader,  and  so  makes  him  a  party  to  the  joke,  as  rich 
comic  actors  do  with  their  audiences.  Such  is  Voltaire's  ex- 
quisite banter  on  War,  in  which  he  says,  that  a  monarch  picks 
up  a  parcel  of  men  "  who  have  nothing  to  do,  dresses  them  in 
coarse  blue  cloth  at  two  sJi/lIings  a  yard,  binds  their  hats  with 
coarse  white  worsted,  turns  them  to  the  right  and  left,  and 
marches  away  with  them  to  Glorv." — Dictionnaire  Philosophique, 
Art.  Guerre. 

Thus  also,  speaking  of  the  So7ig  of  SoIomo7i  (to  the  poetry  of 
which,  and  the  oriental  warrant  of  its  imagery,  he  was  too  much 
a  Frenchman  of  that  age  to  be  alive,  notwithstanding  his  genius), 
he  says  of  it,  that  it  is  not  in  the  style  of  the  Greeks  and  Ro- 
mans ;  but  then  he  adds,  as  if  in  its  defence,  that  Solomon  was 
"  a  Jew  ;"  and  "a  Jew  is  not  obliged  to  write  like  Virgil."  ("Un 
Juif  n'est  pas  oblige  d'ecrire  comme  Virgile." — Id.,  Art.  Salo- 
mon.) 

It  is  impossible  to  help  laughing  at  this,  however  uncritical. 
Very  lucky  was  it  for  the  interest  and  varieties  of  poetry,  that 
the  East  was  not  obliged  to  write  like  the  West ;  and  much  less 
to  copy  a  copyist  ?  Voltaire  was  a  better  Christian  than  he  took 
himself  for,  and  the  greatest  wit  that  ever  lived ;  but  Solomon 
had  more  poetry  in  his  little  finger — at  least,  of  the  imaginative 
sort — than  the  Frenchman  in  his  whole  mocking  body. 

5th  Burlesque,  or  Fure  Mockery,  from  hurlare,  Ital.,  to  jest 
with,  to  jeer.  The  word,  I  take  it,  comes  from  the  same  imita- 
tive root   as   hurrasca  and   hurheria  (storm   and    swelling),  and 


ON  WIT  AND  HUMOR.  19 


originates  in  the  puffing  and  blowing  of  the  cheeks  of  the  old 
comedians.  This  is  the  caricature  and  contradiction  of  the 
serious  in  pretension,  as  the  inock-heroic  is  the  echo  and  the  mis- 
application of  the  dignified  in  style.  It  farcically  degrades,  as 
the  other  playfully  elevates ;  and  is  a  formidable  exhibition, 
when  genius  is  the  performer.  Aristophanes,  by  means  of  it, 
confounded  Socrates  with  the  Sophists,  and  prepared  the  way  for 
his  murder.  Its  greatest  type  in  the  English  language  is  Hudi- 
bras,  which  reversed  the  process  of  Aristophanes,  and  rescued 
good  sense  and  piety  out  of  the  coarse  hands  of  the  Puritans. 
Plentiful  specimens  of  it  from  that  poem  will  be  found  in  the 
present  volume.  The  work  of  Rabelais  is  a  wild  but  profound 
burlesque  of  some  of  the  worst  abuses  in  government  and  reli- 
gion, and  has  had  a  corresponding  effect  on  the  feelings,  or  un- 
conscious reasonings,  of  the  world.  Tliis  must  be  its  excuse  for 
a  coarseness  which  was  perhaps  its  greatest  recommendation  in 
the  "  good  old  times,"  though  at  present  one  is  astonished  how 
people  could  bear  it.  Rabelais'  combination  of  work  and  play, 
of  merriment  and  study,  of  excessive  animal  spirits  with  prodi- 
gious learning,  would  be  a  perpetual  marvel,  if  we  did  not  re- 
flect that  nothing  is  more  likely  to  make  a  man  happy,  particu- 
larly a  Frenchman,  than  his  being  able  to  indulge  his  genius, 
and  cultivate  the  task  he  is  fit  for.  Native  vivacity  and  suitable 
occupation  conspire  to  make  his  existence  perfect.  Voltaire  is 
a  later  instance.  Thus  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  mirth  of 
Rabelais  was  as  real  as  it  seems.  Indeed  it  could  not  otherwise 
have  been  so  incessant.  It  is  a  pity  somebody  does  not  take  up 
the  wonderful  translation  of  him  by  Urquhart,  and  make  a  good 
single  volume  of  it,  fit  for  modern  readers.  It  would  include  all 
the  best  points,  and  even  what  Barrow  would  have  called  its 
most  "  acute  nonsense," — ^^jargon,  which  sometimes  is  the  only 
perfect  exhibition  of  the  nonsense  it  ridicules.  Such,  for  instance, 
is  the  gibberish  so  zealously  poured  forth  by  the  counsel  for 
plaintiff  and  defendant  in  the  court  of  law  (Book  the  Second), 
and  the  no  less  solemn  summing  up,  in  the  same  language,  by 
the  learned  judge.  A  little  correction  would  soon  render  that 
passage  admissible  into  good  company.  What,  too,  could  be 
more  easily  retained  in  like  manner,  than  the  account  of  the  gi- 


20  AN  ILLUSTRATIVE  ESSAY 


gantic  despot  Gargantua,  who  "  ate  six  pilgrims  in  a  salad  ?"  of 
the  Abbey  of  the  Thelemites,  or  people  who  did  as  they  pleased 
(natural  successors  of  the  prohibited)  ?  of  the  reason  "  why  monks 
love  to  be  in  kitchens  ?"  of  the  Popemania  and  the  decretals  ? 
of  the  storm  at  sea,  and  how  Panurge  would  have  given  anything 
to  have  been  out  of  it  on  dry  land,  even  to  the  permission  to 
somebody  to  kick  him?  Admirable  things  have  the  wits  and 
even  the  gravest  reformers  (the  wits  themselves  are  sometimes 
the  gravest)  got  out  of  this  prince  of  buffoons,  whom  the  older  I 
grow  (always  excepting  the  detestable  coarseness  taught  him  by 
the  monks)  the  more  I  admire ;  for  I  now  think  that  his  Orach 
of  the  bottle  meant  the  sincerity  which  is  to  be  found  in  wine,  and 
that  his  despair  of  "  extracting  water  out  of  pumice-stones,"  and 
of  "  washing  asses'  heads  without  losing  his  soap  "  pointed  only 
at  things  that  ought  to  be  impossible,  and  not  at  those  hopes  for 
the  world  which  his  own  heartiness  tended  to  animate.  Steele, 
Swift,  Sterne,  nay  the  Puritans  themselves,  as  far  as  they  were 
men  of  business,  got  wisdom  out  of  Rabelais ;  and  so  perhaps 
has  the  noble  Society  of  his  modern  countrymen,  whose  motto  is, 
"  Help  yourself,  and  Heaven  will  help  you."  "  Put  your  trust 
in  God,"  said  the  Cromwellite,  "  and  keep  your  powder  dry." 
"  Pantagruel,"  says  Rabelais,  "  having  first  implored  the  assist- 
ance of  Heaven,  held  fast,  by  the  pilot's  advice,  of  the  mast  of 
the  ship"  (book  iv.,  chap.  19). 

''  We  must  implore,  invoke,  pray,  beseech  and  supplicate  Heaven,"  quoth 
Epistemon  ;  «  but  we  mustn't  stop  there  ;  loe  must,  as  holy  writ  says,  co- 
operate with  it." 

"Devil  take  me,"  said  Friar  John,  "but  the  close  of  Seville  would  all 
have  been  gathered,  vintaged,  gleaned,  and  swallowed  u-p,  if  I  had  only 
sung  'From  the  snares  of  the  enemy,'  like  the  rest  of  the  scoundrelly 
monks  ;  and  hadn't  bestirred  myself  to  save  the  vineyard  as  I  did." 

Fnar  John  had  stripped  himself  to  his  waistcoat  to  help  the  seamen. 
Epistemon,  Ponocrates,  and  the  rest  did  as  much.  Panurge  alone  sat  on 
the  deck,  weeping  and  howling.  "  Odzooks  !"  cried  Friar  John :  "  What ! 
Panurge  playing  the  calf !  Panurge  whining  !  Panurge  braying  !  Would 
it  not  become  thee  much  better  to  lend  us  a  helping  hand,  than  to  keep 
sitting  there  like  a  baboon  and  lowing  like  a  cow.'"  '■'■Be,  be,  be,  bous, 
bous,  bous,"  returned  Panurge  (he  was  blubbering  and  swallowing  the' 
water  that  broke  over  them) ;— "Friar  John,  my  friend,  my  good  father, 


ON  WIT  AND  HUMOR.  21 

I'm  drowning ;  I  drown  ;  I'm  a  dead  man,  my  dear  father  in  God  ;  I'm 

a  dead  man,  my  friend  ;  your  va]or  cannot  save  me  from  this  ;  alas  !  alas  ! 
we're  above  E  la  (a  term  in  music),  above  the  pitch,  out  of  tune,  and  off 
the  hinges.  Be,  be,  be,  bous.  Alas  !  we're  above  G  Sol  Re  Ut.  I  sink, 
I  sink,  my  father,  my  uncle,  my  all.  The  water's  got  into  me.  I  pash  it 
in  my  shoes — boun,  bous,  bous,  pash — I  drown — alas  !  alas  !  hu,  hu,  hu, 
hu,  bous,  bous,  bobous,  ho,  ho,  alas  !  Would  to  Heaven  I  were  in  com- 
pany with  those  good  holy  fathers  we  met  this  morning  going  to  council, 
— 50  godly,  so  comely,  so  fat  and  happy,  my  friend.  Holos,  holos,  holos, 
alas!  ah,  see  there!  This  devilish  wave  (God  forgive  me)  /  mean  this 
wave  of  Providence,  \\'\\l  sink  our  vessel.  Alas,  Friar  John,  my  father, 
my  friend  ; — confess  me.  I'm  down  on  my  knees.  I  confess  my  sins — 
your  blessing." 

"  Go  to  the  devil,"  said  Friar  John  ;  "  will  you  never  leave  oft'  whining 
and  snivelling  ?     Come  and  help  us." 

"  Don't  swear,"  said  Panurge,  "  don't  swear,  holy  father,  my  friend,  I 
beseech  you.  To-morrow  as  much  as  you  please.  I  drown.  I'll  give 
eighteen  hundred  thousand  crowns  to  any  one  that  will  set  me  on  shore. 
Oh,  my  dear  friend,  I  confess  :  hear  me  confess  :  a  little  bit  of  a  will  or 
testament  at  any  rate." 

"  His  will !"  said  Friar  John.  "  Stir  your  stumps,  now  or  never,  you 
pitiful  rascal.     The  poor  devil's  frightened  out  of  his  wits." 

"  Sous,  bous,  bous,"  continued  Panurge.  "  I  sink  ;  I  die,  my  friends.  I 
die  in  charity  with  all  the  world.  Farewell.  Bous,  bous,  bousowwan- 
waus.  St.  Michael !  St.  Nicholas  !  now  or  never.  Deliver  me  from  this 
danger,  and  I  here  make  a  solemn  vow  to  build  you  a  fine  large  little 
chapel  or  two  between  Conde  and  Monsoreau,  where  neither  cow  nor  calf 
shall  feed.  Oh,  oh  !  pailfuls  are  getting  down  my  throat — bous,  bous. 
How  devilish  bitter  and  salt  it  is  !  Oh,  you  sinn'd  just  now.  Friar  John, 
V  lu  did  indeed  ;  you  sinn'd  when  you  swore  ;  think  of  that,  my  FORMER 
CROjYY  !  former,  I  say,  because  it's  all  over  with  us;  with  you  as  well 
as  with  me.  Oh,  I  sink,  I  sink.  Oh  to  be  but  once  again  on  dry  ground  ; 
never  mind  how  or  in  what  condition  ;  oh,  if  I  was  but  on  firm  land, 
with  somebody  kicking  me."* 

But  I  must  get  out  of  the  company  of  Rabelais,  or  I  shall  never 
see  land  in  this  essay.  The  above  is  a  hasty  specimen  of  the 
sort  of  abridgment  which  I  think  might  be  made  of  this  immor- 
tal jester  ;  and  after  the  fashion  of  the  disinterestedness  which  he 
and  other  scholars  have  taught  me,  I  here  make  a  present  of  the 

*  This  extract  is  abridged  from  two  different  editions  of  the  variorum 
translation  of  Rabelais;  or  rather  the  concluding  passage  is  added,  and 
quoted  from  memory,  out  of  the  one  I  first  met  with  ;  which  I  take  to  oe 
the  best. 


22  AN  ILLUSTRATIVE  ESSAY 


notion  to  the  booksellers.  It  is  good  to  be  brought  up  in  the 
company  of  the  cheerful. 

Parody  (JlapuSta,  Side-song? — song  turned  from  its  purpose) 
is  sometimes  pure  burlesque,  and  sometimes  a  species  of  compli- 
mental  irony,  hovering  between  burlesque  and  mock-heroic. 
Dr.  King's  Art  of  Cookery,  quoted  in  the  foregoing  section,  is  a 
parody  on  Horace's  Art  of  Poetry,  and  commences  like  its  origi- 
nal with  remarks  on  the  fault  of  incongruity  : — 

Ingenious  Lister,  were  a  picture  drawn 

With  Cynthia's  face,  but  with  a  neck  like  brawn, 

With  wings  of  turkey,  and  with  feet  of  calf, 

Though  drawn  by  Kneller,  it  would  make  you  laugh. 

(I  do  not  think  it  would,  any  more  than  the  like  monstrosity  in 
Horace.  It  would  be  simply  shocking.  But  the  rest  is  good, 
both  as  to  books  and  dishes.) 

Such  is,  good  sir,  the  figure  of  a  feast 

By  some  rich  farmer's  wife  and  sister  drest ; 

Which,  were  it  not  for  plenty  and  for  steam. 

Might  be  resembled  to  a  sick  man's  dream  : 

Where  all  ideas  huddling  run  so  fast. 

That  syllabubs  come  first,  and  soups  the  last. 

Not  but  that  cooks  and  poets  still  were  free 

To  use  their  power  in  nice  variety  ; 

Hence,  mackerel  seem  delightful  to  the  eyes. 

Though  dress'd  with  incoherent  gooseberries  : 

Crabs,  salmon,  lobsters,  are  with  fennel  spread. 

Who  never  touch'd  that  herb  till  they  were  dead  : 

Yet  no  man  lards  salt  pork  with  orange-peel, 

Or  garnishes  his  lamb  with  spitch-cock'd  eel. 

Parody  is  not  only  a  compliment  instead  of  a  satire,  as  some 
people  think  it,  but  a  compliment  greater  than  it  is  thought  by 
others,  for  it  is  a  greater  test  of  merit.  Sometimes  it  is  so  close, 
yet  amusing,  as  to  become  almost  identical  ;  in  which  case  it 
betrays  the  existence  of  something  too  much  like  itself  in  the 
original  ;  that  is  to  say,  unintentionally  subject  to  a  derisive 
echo.  Mr.  Crabbe,  an  acute  though  not  impartial  observer  of 
common  life,  a  versifier  of  singular  facility,  and  a  genuine  wit, 
had  nevertheless  a  style  so  mixed  up  with  conventionalisms  and 


ON  WIT  AND  HUMOR.  23 

antithetical  points,  that  the  happy  parody  of  him  in  the  Rejected 
Addresses  seems  almost  identical  with  what  he  himself  would 
have  written  on  the  same  theatrical  subject,  not  intending  to 
make  so  much  game  of  it.  The  parody  is  like  the  echo  of  an 
eccentric  laugh. 

John  Richard  William  Alexander  Dwyer 
Was  footman  to  Justinian  Stubbs,  Esquire  ; 

But  when  John  Dwyer  listed  in  the  Blues, 

Emmanuel  Jennings  polish' d  Stubbs' s  shoes. 

Emmanuel  Jennings  brought  his  younger  boy 
Up  as  a  corn-cutter,  a  safe  employ ; — 

Pat  was  the  urchin's  name,  a  red-hair'd  youth, 

Fonder  of  purl  and  skittle  grounds  than  truth. 

Backs  with  pockets  empty  as  their  pate, 

Lax  in  their  gaiters,  laxer  in  their  gait. 

The  Splendid  Shilling  (see  it  in  the  present  volume)  is  an  ex- 
cellent parody  of  the  style  of  Milton.  So  is  Isaac  Hawkins 
Browne's  Pipe  of  Tobacco,  of  the  styles  of  Pope  and  Ambrose 
Philips. 

Come  let  me  taste  thee,  unexcis'd  of  kings — 

and  (alluding  to  an  anti-climax  in  Pope's  praise  of  Murray) — 

Persuasion  tips  his  tongue  whene'er  he  talks, 
And  he  has  lodgings  in  the  King's  Bench  Walks. 

But  Parody,  I  think,  sooner  palls  upon  the  reader  than  most 
kinds  of  Wit.  In  truth,  it  is  very  easy  ;  and,  in  long  instances, 
tiresome  from  its  easiness,  sometimes  from  its  vulgarity.  I  re- 
member in  my  youth  trying  in  vain  to  read  Cotton's  Traveslie  of 
Virgil.  It  revolted  me  with  its  coarseness.  I  retained  only  the 
following  four  indifferent  lines  : — 

Thus  spoke  this  Trojan  heart  of  oak, 
And  thundered  through  the  gate  like  smoke  : 
His  brother  Paris  followed  close, 
Resolv'd  to  give  the  Greeks  a  dose. 

There  is  some  excellent  parody,  however,  in  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher's  Knight  of  the  Burning  Pestle,  in  the  Duke  of  Buck- 


24  AN  ILLUSTRATIVE  ESSAY 

ingham's  Rehearsal,  Sheridan's  Critic,  and  Fielding's  Tom 
Thumb,  particularly,  I  think,  the  last.  It  has  more  gaiety  as 
well  as  good  nature  than  the  other  satires. 

The  speech  of  Tom  Thumb,  when  desired  by  the  king  to 
name  his  reward  for  the  victories  he  has  gained  him,  is  a  banter 
on  the  high  flights  in  the  plays  of  Dryden  and  others,  some  of 
which  are  literally  given — 

Ki7ig.  Oh  Thumb,  what  do  we  to  thy  valor  owe  ? 
Ask  some  reward,  great  as  we  can  bestow. 

Thumb.  I  ask  not  kingdoms  ; — /  can  conquer  those  ; 
I  ask  not  money ; — money  Vve  enough. 
For  what  I've  done,  and  what  I  mean  to  do, 
For  giants  slain,  and  giants  yet  unborn, 
Which  I  will  slay, — if  this  be  called  a  debt, 
Take  my  receipt  in  full  : — I  ask  but  this, — 
To  sun  myself  in  Huncamu7ica's  eyes, 

(Huncamunca  is  the  princess  royal.) 

King,  (aside)  Prodigious  bold  request ! 

And  the  simile  of  the  Dogs  is  too  good  to  omit,  for  the  solem- 
nity  of  its  triviality  and  the  stately  monosyllabic  stamp  of  its 
music  : — 

So  when  two  dogs  are  fighting  in  the  streets,* 
With  a  third  dog  one  of  the  two  dogs  meets  ; 

("  Dogs  meets  "  is  an  exquisite  hiss,  and  punning  intimation) — ■ 

With  angry  tooth  he  bites  him  to  the  bone ; 

And  THIS  dog  smarts  for  what  that  dog  had  done. 

This  simile  reminds  me  of  a  happy  one  of  poor  Kit  Smart,  in 
whom  a  good  deal  of  real  genius  seems  to  have  wasted  itself 
away  in  complexional  weakness.     I  quote  it  from  memory  : — 

Thus  when  a  barber  and  a  collier  fight. 

The  barber  beats  the  luckless  collier  white ; 

In  comes  the  brick-dustman  with  rouge  bespread, 

And  beats  the  barber  and  the  collier  red  ; 

The  rallying  collier  whirls  his  empty  sack. 

And  beats  the  brick-dustman  and  barber  black  , 

Slack,  white,  and  red  in  various  clouds  are  toss'd, 

And  in  the  dust  they  raise  the  combatants  are  lost. 


ON  WIT  AND  HUMOR.  25 


Dr.  Johnson's  mimicry  of  the  simple  style  of  the  old  ballads  is 
good  : — 

As  with  my  hat  upon  my  head 
.  I  walk'd  along  the  Strand, 

I  there  did  meet  another  man 
With  his  hat  in  his  liand. 


Nevertheless 'this  jest  is  an  edifying  instance  of  a  wit's  not  bein'j- 
always  aware  of  the  beauty  contained  in  what  he  parodies. 
Johnson  would  have  been  fifty  times  the  "  poet '"  he  was,  had  he 
been  alive  to  the  simplicity  which  he  saw  only  in  its  abuse. 

6th.  Exaggeration,  Ulira-Coiifhiuiti/,  and  Extravagance  in  Gene- 
ral.— These  heads  miglit  be  thought  to  belong  to  the  preceding 
section  ;  but  there  is  generally  satire  in  Burlesque,  which  is  not 
perhaps  the  case  with  Exaggeration.  You  may  exaggerate  in 
order  to  eulogize,  and  sincerely  too  j  the  excess  in  that  case  be- 
ing but  the  representation  of  the  good  spirits  and  gratitude  with 
which  you  do  it,  and  an  intimation  that  justice  is  not  to  be  done 
niggardly.  Thus  Falstaif,  himself  an  exaggeration,  overflows 
both  in  praise  and  blame.  Love  exaggerates  as  well  as  spleen. 
Everything  exaggerates  which  has  a  natural  tendency  to  make 
the  best  or  the  worst  of  what  it  feels.  We  "  feed  fat  a  grudge  :" 
we  pamper  a  predilection.  The  voluptuous  is  the  expatiatory 
and  the  continuous.  "  Another  bottle,"  makes  its  appearance, 
because  the  last  was  one  too  much,  and  it  is  three  in  the  morn- 
intr.  But  in  regard  to  Wit  and  Humor,  it  must  be  confessed 
that  Exaggeration  is  generally  on  the  side  of  objection,  though 
seldom  illnaturedly.  When  otherwise,  it  becomes  revolting, 
and  defeats  its  purpose.  Ben  Jonson's  attacks  on  Inigo  Jones 
are  not  so  good  as  his  Epicure  Mammon.  The  two  best  pieces 
of  comic  exaggeration  I  am  acquainted  with  (next  to  whole 
poems  like  Hudibras)  are  the  Descriptions  of  Holland  by  the 
author  of  that  poem,  and  Andrew  Marvel.  The  reader  will  find 
passages  of  them  in  the  present  volume.  Holland  and  England 
happened  to  be  great  enemies  in  the  time  of  Charles  the  Second, 
and  the  wits  were  always  girding  at  the  Dutchmen  and  their 
"ditch."     Butler  calls  them  a  people 


25  AN  ILLUSTRATIVE  ESSAY 

That  feed,  like  cannibals,  on  other  fishes, 
And  serve  their  cousins- german  up  in  dishes  ; 

and  Marvel,  in  the  same  strain,  says, 

The  fish  oft-times  the  burgher  dis^iossess'd,  » 

And  sat,  not  as  a  meat,  but  as  a  guest. 

Hazlitt,  in  his  observations  on  Marvel  (Lectures,  ut  sup.  Tem- 
pleman's  edition,  p.  105),  cannot  see  the  jest  in  tiiis  line.  He 
thinks  it  "forced"  and  "far-fetched."  I  remember  he  made 
the  same  observation  once  to  Charles  Lamb  and  myself,  and  was 
entering  into  a  very  acute  discourse  to  prove  that  we  ought  not 
to  laugh  at  such  exaggerations,  when  we  were  forced  to  inter- 
rupt him  by  a  fit  of  laughter  uncontrollable.  The  exaggerations, 
no  doubt,  are  extremely  far-fetched,  but  they  are  not  forced  ; 
Marvel  could  have  talked  such  by  the  hundred,  ad  libitum  ;  and 
it  is  this  easiness  and  flow  of  extravagance,  as  well  as  the  rela- 
tive truth  lurking  within  it,  that  renders  it  delightful  to  tiiose 
who  have  animal  spirits  enough  to  join  the  merriment ;  which 
Hazlitt  had  not.  His  sense  of  humor,  strong  as  it  was,  did  not 
carry  him  so  far  as  that.  Had  it  done  so,  I  doubt  whether,  on 
the  very  principle  of  extremes  meeting,  he  would  have  enumerat- 
ed among  his  provocatives  to  laughter  "  a  funeral,"  "a  wedding," 
or  even  "  a  damned  author,  though  he  may  be  our  friend." 
What  he  says  about  the  difficulty  of  bearing  demands  on  our 
gravity  is  very  true.  I  would  not  answer  for  my  own  upon  oc- 
casions of  common  formal  solemnity,  or  even  at  "  a  sermon,"  if 
the  preacher  was  very  bad.  But  the  same  liability  to  sympathy 
with  the  extremest  present  emotion,  which  would  have  made  him 
laugh  heartily  with  Marvel,  would  probably  have  absorbed  him 
in  the  troubles  and  griefs  of  the  other  occasions,  and  so  pre- 
vented his  having-  a  thought  of  laujj-hter  :  for  he  was  a  very  good- 
natured  man  at  heart.  But  the  risibilities  of  the  serious  are  not 
always  to  be  accounted  for.  Spinoza  found  something  excess- 
ively droll  and  diverting  in  the  combats  of  spiders.* 

*  See,  in  Mr.  Knight's  "  Weekly  Volumes,"  the  Biographieal  History 
of  Philosophy  by  my  friend  G.  H.  Lewes ; — the  most  lucid  and  complete 
summary  of  philosophical  opinion,  which  the  language  possesses. 


ON  WIT  AND  HUMOR.  29 

Falstaff  exaggerates  admirably  on  the  subject  of  Bardolph's 
nose : — 

If  thou  wert  any  way  given  to  virtue,  I  would  swear  by  thy  face.  My 
oath  should  be,  "  By  this  fire."  But  thou  art  altogether  given  over  ;  and 
wert  indeed,  but  for  the  light  in  thy  face,  the  son  of  utter  darkness. 
When  thou  ran'st  up  Gad's-hill  in  the  night  to  catch  my  horse,  if  I  did 
not  think  thou  hadst  been  an  ignis  fatuus,  or  a  ball  of  wildfire,  there's  no 
purchase  in  money.  O,  thou  art  a  perpetual  triumph,  and  everlasting 
bonfire-light !  Thou  hast  saved  me  a  thousand  marks  in  links  and 
torches,  walking  with  thee  in  the  night  betweeti  tavern  and  tavern  ;  but 
the  sack  that  thou  hast  drank  me  would  have  bought  me  lights  as  good 
cheap,  at  the  dearest  chandler's  in  Europe.  I  have  maintained  that  sala- 
mander of  yours  with  fire,  any  time  this  two  and  thirty  years.  Heaven 
reward  me  for  it ! 

King  Hennj  IF.,  Part  i.,  Act  3. 

Of  laudatory  exaggeration  there  is  a  beautiful  specimen  put 
into  the  mouth  of  the  Dauphin,  in  the  play  of  King  Henry  the 
Fifth.  Shakspeare  probably  intended  it  to  be  nationally  as  well 
as  individually  characteristic.  It  is  spoken  the  night  before  the 
battle  of  Agincourt.  But  if  it  has  all  the  confidence  and  animal 
spirits  of  our  gallant  neighbors,  it  is  no  les^well  intended  towards 
their  wit  and  eloquence. 

Constable  of  France.  Tut !  I  have  the  best  armor  of  the  world.  Would 
it  were  day. 

Duke  of  Orleans.  You  have  an  excellent  armor ;  but  let  my  horse  have 
his  due. 

Constable.  It  is  the  best  horse  of  Europe. 

Orleans.  Will  it  never  be  morning .-' 

Dauphin.  My  Lord  of  Orleans,  and  my  Lord  High  Constable,  you  talk 
of  horse  and  armor. 

Orleans.  You  are  as  well  provided  of  both  as  any  prince  in  the  world. 

Dauphin.  What  a  long  night  is  this  !  I  will  not  change  my  horse  with 
any  that  treads  but  on  four  pasterns.  Ha,  ha  !  He  bounds  from  the  earth 
as  if  his  entrails  were  hairs ;  le  cheval  volant,  the  Pegasus  qui  a  les  na- 
nnes  de  feu  !  (He  is  the  flying  horse,  that  has  nostrils  of  fire.)  When  I 
bestride  him  I  soar,  I  am  a  hawk;  he  trots  the  air;  the  earth  sings  when 
he  touches  it ;  the  basest  horn  of  his  hoof  is  more  musical  than  the  pipe  of 
Hermes. 

Orleans.  He  is  of  the  color  of  the  nutmeg. 

Dauphin.  And  of  the  heat  of  the  ginger.  It  is  a  beast  for  Perseus  ;  lie 
is  pure  air  and  fire  ;  and  the  dull  elements  of  earth  and  water  never  ap- 


28  AN  ILLUSTRATIVE  ESSAY 

pear  in  him,  but  only  in  a  patient  stillness,  while  his  rider  mounts  him  • 

he  is,  indeed,  a  horse  ;  and  all  other  jades  you  may  call  beasts. 

Constable.  Indeed,  my  lord,  he  is  a  most  absolute  and  excellent  horse. 

Dauphin.  It  is  the  prince  of  palfreys  ;  his  neigh  is  like  the  bidding  of  a 
monarch,  and  his  countenance  enforces  homage. 

There  is  more  of  it  and  greater ;  but  I  stop ;  for  the  wit,  like 
the  thing  it  speaks  of,  has  taken  wings,  and  carried  us  into  the 
highest  region  of  poetry. 

The  spirit  of  Continuity  arises  from  the  same  excess  of  plea- 
santry, and  enjoyment  of  the  subject  in  hand,  as  that  of  Exagge- 
ration, and  is  to  be  found  in  the  same  writers.  Rabelais  will 
repeat  a  mere  list  of  things,  till  the  reader  is  conquered  into 
laughter  ;  just  as  we  see  people  forced  out  of  a  grave  face  by  the 
like  kind  of  pertinacity  in  the  repetition  of  some  unmeaning  word 
or  grimace.  The  absence  of  very  warrant  for  laughter  in  the 
first  instance  compels  it  to  come  at  last  by  dint  of  the  sense  of 
contrast,  and  the  importunity  of  the  idea  which  is  to  be  avoided. 
We  think  of  nothing  but  the  joke,  because  there  is  no  joke  to 
think  of.  Perhaps  there  is  something  of  the  same  kind  of  under- 
stood dulness  on  occasions  that  seem  alto£[ether  of  a  different  sort. 
Thus  when  we  laugh  at  the  repetition  of  the  words  "  Pauvre 
homme,"  in  a  celebrated  passage  in  Moliere,  it  is  because  of  the 
stupid  simplicity  of  the  speaker,  who  turns  the  very  selfishness 
and  enjoyments  of  his  idol  into  grounds  of  adoring  pity.  Tar- 
iuffe  is  a  scoundrelly  hypocrite  and  pretended  saint,  who  has  got 
the  ascendency  in  the  house  of  his  dupe,  and  repays  him  for  it  by 
every  species  of  villainy.  The  lady's-maid  has  found  him  out, 
and  would  fain  enlighten  her  master,  but  to  no  purpose. 

Orgon.  Well,  Dorina,  has  everything  been  going  on  as  it  should  do  these 
two  days  ?    How  do  they  all  do  f    And  what  have  they  been  about .' 

Dorine.  My  mistress  was  ill  the  day  before  yesterday  with  a  fever.  She 
had  a  headache  quite  dreadful  to  think  of. 


Orgon.  Dorine — 
Tout  s'est-il,  ces  deux  jours,  passe  de  bonne  sorte  .' 
Qu'est-ce  qu'on  fait  ceans  .'     Comme  est-ce  qu'on  s'y  porte  ? 

Dorine.  Madame  eut  avant  hier  la  fievre  jusqu'au  soir 
Avec  un  mal  de  tete  etrange  a  concevoir. 


ON  WIT  AND  HUMOR.  29 

Org.  And  Tartuffe  ? 

Dor.  Tartuffe  !  Oh  he  is  wonderfully  well ;  fat  and  hearty ,  with  a 
fresh  complexion,  and  a  mouth  as  red  as  a  rose. 

Org.  {turning  about  with  an  air  of  fondness).     Poor  soul  ! 

Dor.  In  the  evening  my  mistress  was  taken  ill,  and  couldn't  touch  a  bit 
at  supper,  her  head  was  so  bad. 

Org.  And  Tartuffe  7 

Dor.  Oh,  seeing  she  couldn't  eat,  he  ate  by  himself;  and  very  devoutly 
swallowed  two  partridges,  with  a  good  half  of  a  hashed  leg  of  mutton. 

Org.  Poor  soul ! 

Dor.  My  mistress  didn't  shut  her  eyes  all  night.  The  fever  hindered 
her  from  getting  a  wink  of  sleep  ;  so  that  we  were  obliged  to  watch  by  her 
till  morning. 

Org.  And  Tartuffe  1 

Dor.  Tartuffe,  happy  gentleman,  with  a  comfortable  yawn,  goes  right 
from  table  to  bed,  where  he  plunges  into  his  warm  nest,  and  sleeps  soundly 
till  morning. 

Org.  Poor  soul !  "    - 

Dor.  At  last  we  prevailed  upon  madams  to  be  bled,  which  gave  her 
gveat  relief. 

Org.  Et  Tartuffe  ? 

Dor.  Tartuffe  !  il  se  porte  a  merveille, 

Gros  et  gras,  le  teint  frais,  et  la  bouche  vermeille. 

Org.  Le  pauvre  homme  ! 

Dor.  Le  soir,  elle  eut  un  grand  degout, 

Et  ne  put,  au  souper,  toucher  a  rien  du  tout : 
Tant  sa  douleur  de  tete  etoit  encor  cruelle  ! 

Org.  Et  Tartuffe  ? 

Dor.  II  souper,  lui  tout  seul,  devant  elle ; 

Et  fort  devotement  il  mangea  deux  perdrix, 
Avec  une  moitie  de  gigot  en  hachis. 

Org.  Le  pauvre  homme  ! 

Dor.  La  nuit  se  passa  tout  entiere 

Sans  qu'elle  put  fermcr  un  moment  la  paupiero; 
Des  chaleurs  I'empechoient  de  pouvoir  sommeiller 
Et,  jusqu'au  jour,  pres  d'elle  il  nous  fallut  veiller. 

Org.  Et  Tartuffe? 

Dor.  Presse  d'un  sommeil  agreable, 

II  passa  dans  sa  chambre  au  sortir  de  la  table  ; 
Et  dans  son  lit  bien  chaud  il  se  mit  tout  soudain, 
Ou  sans  trouble  il  dormit  jusques  au  lendemain. 

Org.  Le  pauvre  homme  ! 

Dor.  A  la  fin,  par  nos  raisons  gagnee, 

Elle  se  resolut  a  souffrir  la  saignee  : 
Et  le  soulagement  suivit  tout  aussitot. 


30  AN  ILLUSTRATIVE  ESSAY 

Org.  And  Tartiiffe  7 

Dor.  Monsieur  TartufFe  was  very  much  relieved  also.  He  found  himself 
charming ;  and  to  repair  the  loss  of  blood  which  madame  had  sustained, 
took  four  good  swigs  of  wine  with  his  breakfast. 

Org.  Poor  soul  f 

Dor.  In  short,  they  are  both  very  well  now ;  so  I'll  go  and  tell  my  mis- 
tress you  are  coming,  and  how  happy  you  are  to  hear  she  is  recovered. 


Org.  Et  Tartuffe .' 

Dor.  II  reprit  courage  comme  il  faut; 

Et,  contre  tous  les  maux  fortifiant  son  ame, 
Pour  reparer  le  sang  qu'avoit  perdu  madame. 
But,  a  son  dejeune,  quatre  grands  coups  de  vin. 

Org.  Le  pauvre  homme  ! 

Dor.  Tous  deux  se  portent  bien  enfin  : 

Et  je  vais  a  madame  annoncer,  par  avance. 
La  part  que  vous  prenez  a  sa  convalescence. 

But  I  must  try  to  get  over  my  ground  a  little  faster,  or  this  Es- 
say will  take  up  the  whole  volume,  and  become  an  overture  with 
no  play  to  it. 

7th.  Ally  kind  of  Juxtaposition  of  Ideas  having  a  Pleasant  Ef 
feet,  down  to  those  depending  on  Sound  ;  such  as  Putis,  Macaronic 
Poetry,  Haf-Jargon  Burdens  of  So7igs,  and  even  Nonsense 
Verses. — This  is  a  wide  range,  and  is  intended  to  include  every- 
thing in  Barrow's  account  of  Wit,  which  is  omitted  in  the  foi-e- 
going  sections.  The  reader  will  have  observed  that  we  have  for 
some  time  been  in  the  region  of  Humor  as  well  as  Wit.  I  shall 
endeavor  to  show  the  distinct  remaining  portions  of  the  former 
presently.  The  section  before  us  is  a  kmd  of  play-ground  com- 
mon  to  both.  Animal  spirits  are  here  in  their  most  fugitive  pas- 
sages and  most  arbitrary  freaks  of  caprice.  But  I  must  endeavor 
not  to  let  them  detain  me. 

Contempt  expressed  of  one  person  by  praise  of  another  : — 

With  him  came  mighty  Davies. —  On  my  life. 
That  Davies  hath  a  very  pretty  wife. 

Churchill  of  the  Actors. 

Extravagant  imputation  against  a  character,  producing  a  true 
general  impression  of  it : — 


ON  WIT  AND  HUMOR.  31 

Narcissa's  nature,  tolerably  mild. 

To  make  a  wash  would  hardly  stew  a  child. 

Pope 

Subtle  and  confounding  contradiction  of  appearances  : — 

Zara  resembles  Etna  crown'd  with  snows  ; 
Without  she  freezes,  and  within  she  glows  ; 
Twice  ere  the  sun  descends,  with  zeal  inspir'd, 
From  the  vain  converse  of  the  world  retir'd, 
She  reads  the  psalms  and  chapters  for  the  day 
In — Cleopatra,  or  the  last  new  play. 
Thus  gloomy  Zara,  with  a  solemn  grace, 
Deceives  mankind,  and  hides  behind  her  face. 

Young's  Love  of  Fame. 

One  excessive  conceit  refuted  by  greater  excess  in  another : — 

My  wound  is  great,  because  it  is  so  small. 

\_Dryderi's  lover  {in  one  of  his  plays),  lamenting  an 

unworthy  pas9ion.'\ 
Then  'twould  be  greater,  were  it  none  at  all. 

[Buckingham,  from  the  side  boxes.'\ 

An  exception  without  one  : — 

The  Germans  in  Greek 
Are  sadly  to  seek  ; 
Not  one  in  five-score, 
But  ninety-nine  more ; 
All  save  only  Herman, 
Jlnd — Herman's  a  German. 

Porson,  of  tfie  German  Professors. 

The  monotonous  jingle  in  the  last  line  of  this  epigram  on  the 
words  Herman  and  German  gives  double  effect  to  its  air  of  indif- 
ference or  nullification. 

Contemptuous  mimicry.     Sound  echoing  to  the  sense : — 

Hear  the  pretty  ladies  talk. 

Tittle  tattle,  tittle  tattle  : 

Like  their  pattens  when  they  walk  ; 

Pittle  pattle,  pittle  pattle. 

Dr.  Darwin. 

This  is  very  ungallant  of  the  Doctor  ;  but  he  was  a  ladies'  man 


^■i  AN  ILLUSTRATIVE  ESSAY 


not  of  the  most  sentimental  order ;  and  such  are  always  ready  to 
become  their  satirists. 

Hear  a  greater  genius  of  the   same  class,  crowning  his  love 
with  the  king  of  rhymes  : — 

But  oh  !  ye  lords  of  ladies  intellectual i, 

Inform  us  truly,— haven't  they  hen-peck' d  you  all? 

Don  Juan,  Canto  i. 

Butler  is  so  profuse  of  good  and  astounding  rhymes,  that  they 
become  a  part  of  his  wit,  by  the  increase  and  gaiety  of  the  sur- 
prise.  The  best  of  them  are  brought  together  in  the  present 
volume.  Here  are  two  excellent  ones  of  Prior's,  the  latter  ren- 
dered perfect  in  its  application  by  its  imitating  the  language  of 
the  school-divines : — 

Egyptian  gard'ners  thus  are  said  to 
Have  set  the  leeks  they  after  pray'd  to  ; 
And  Romish  bakers  praise  the  deiti/ 
They  chipp'd  while  yet  in  its  paneity  ; 

that  is  to  say,  its  state  of  being  bread.  Swift  is  famous  for  his 
rhymes.  They  are  often  admirable,  but  in  general  not  so  happy 
as  Butler's.  He  forces  them  too  much  for  their  own  sakes. 
Butler  brings  them  out  of  the  words  before  him,  as  they  natu- 
i-ally  present  themselves  in  the  flow  of  composition.  He  is  re- 
solved that  nothing  shall  baulk  him  ;  and  nothing  does.  Swift, 
however,  often  wrote  forced  verses  as  a  pastime,  for  the  avowed 
purpose  of  forcing  them  ;  and  they  are  sure  to  be  clever  and 
amusing.  He  is  not  content  with  triple  rhymes.  He  quadruples, 
and  even  quintuples  them. 

I  thought  the  lady  at  St.  Catherine's 

(pronounced  Cattern's) 

Knew  how  to  set  you  better  patterns. 

For  this  I  will  not  dine  with  Agmoj^disham  ; 

And  for  his  victuals,  let  a  ragman  dish  'cm 

Answer  to  Sheridan. 

Dear  Tom,— This  verse,  which,  however  the  beginning  may  appear,  yet 
in  the  end's  good  metre. 


ON  WIT  AND  HUMOR.  33 


Is  sent  to  desire,  that  when  your  August  vacation  comes,  your  friends 

you'd  meet  here  : 

For  why  should  you  stay  in  that  filthy  hole,  I  mean  the  city  so  smoky. 
When  you've  not  one  friend  left  in  town,  or  at  least  not  one  that's  witty 

to  joke  id'ye. 

Invitation  to  Sheridan. 

There  is  a  good  forced  rhyme  in  Drunken  Barnahy's  JournaJ, 
almost  the  only  good  thing  in  it.  It  was  suggested  by  the  writer's 
Latin  (for  he  was  the  author  both  of  the  original  and  the  version), 
but  it  is  not  the  worse  for  that.  Indeed  the  passage  is  much  bet- 
ter in  the  English  than  in  the  Latin. 

Veni  Banbury,  0  profanum, 
Ubi  vidi  Puritanum 
Felem  facientem  furem, 
Quia  Sabbatho  stravit  murem. 

To  Banbury  came  I,  0  profane  one. 
Where  I  saw  a  Puritane  one 
Hanging  of  his  cat  on  Monday 
For  killing  of  a  mouse  on  Sunday. 

Ludicrous  panegyric  and  climax,  out  of  a  Poem  in  praise  of 
the  Horn-Book.  This  might  have  come  under  the  head  of  Ex- 
aggeration. 

Thy  heavenly  notes,  like  angel's  music,  cheer 
Departing  souls,  and  soothe  the  dying  ear. 
An  aged  peasant  on  his  latest  bed 
Wish'd  for  a  friend  some  godly  book  to  read  : 
The  pious  grandson  thy  known  handle  takes, 
And  (eyes  lift  up)  this  savory  lecture  makes  ;— 
"  Great  A,"  he  gravely  read.      Th'  important  sound 
The  empty  walls  and  hollow  roof  rebound  ; 
Th"  expiring;  ancient  rear'd  his  drooping  head. 
And  thank' d  his  stars  that  Hodge  had  learned  to  read 
"Great  B,"  the  younker  bawls.      O  heavenly  breath  ! 
What  ghostly  comforts  in  the  hour  of  death  ! 
What  hopes  I  feel  \—'' Great  C,"  pronounc'd  the  boy  ; 
The  grandsire  dies  with  ecstasy  of  joy. 


Tickell. 


Ludicrous  association  of  ideas,  and  aspect  of  solemnity. 

3* 


34  AN  ILLUSTRATIVE  ESSAY 

My  hair  I'd  powder  in  the  woman's  way, 
And  dress,  and  talk  of  dressing,  more  than  they. 
I'll  please  the  Maids  of  Honor,  if  I  can  : 
Without  black  velvet  breeches  what  is  man  ? 

Bramston's  Man  of  Taste, 

Bramston  was  a  facetious  clergyman  and  minor  poet,  whose 
verses  are  to  be  found  in  Dodsley.  They  would  be  worth  reprint- 
ing in  some  selection,  especially  with  notes  explaining  the 
allusions.  He  has  considerable  spirit  and  ease  ;  and  with  more 
attention  to  the  structure  of  his  verse,  might  have  gone  nigh  to 
rival  a  portion  of  the  Dunciad.  One  of  his  poems  is  an  Art  of 
Politics.  The  Ma?i  of  Taste  ends  with  the  following  convincing 
summary  of  arguments  : — 

This  is  true  Taste ;  and  whoso  likes  it  not. 
Is  blockhead,  coxcomb,  puppy,  fool,  and  sot. 

A  great  prose  wit,  Arbuthnot  (who,  by  the  way,  left  some 
interesting  serious  verses  on  the  subject  of  Self-Knowledge, 
which  are  to  be  found  in  the  same  Collection),  tells  a  friend  in  a 
letter,  that  the  following  thought  came  into  his  head  one  day,  as 
he  was  getting  into  his  chariot.  It  is  a  banter  on  the  subtleties 
of  the  schools,  and  the  metaphysical  poets. 

The  dust  in  smaller  particles  arose 
Than  those  which  fluid  bodies  do  compose. 
Contraries  in  extremes  do  often  meet : 
It  was  so  dry,  that  you  might  call  it  wet. 

Burdens  of  songs  have  been  rendered  jovial  and  amusing  not 
only  by  mere  analogies  of  sound,  like  those  of  Darwin,  such  as 
the  glou  glou  of  the  French  bacchanalian  poets  (imitating  the 
decantering  of  wine),  and  Chaulieu's  parrots  in  a  masquerade 
calling  to  the  waiters, — 

(Tot,  tot,— tot,  tot,— tot,  tot,— 
Du  rot,  du  rot,  du  rot, 
Hola,  hola,  laquais, 
Du  vin  aux  perroquets) 

but  a  man  of  genius,  the  best  farcical  writer  in  our  language, 


ON  WIT  AND  HUMOR.  35 

O'Keefe,  has  made  them  epitomes  of  character  and  circumstance, 
and  filled  them  with  a  gaiety  and  a  music  the  most  fantastical 
and  pleasant.  It  is  hardly  fair  to  quote  them  apart  from  the 
■whole  context  of  the  scene  ;  and  readers  are  warned  off,  if  their 
own  animal  spirits  cannot  enter  heartily  into  an  extravagance. 
But  such  as  are  not  afraid  to  be  amused,  will  be. 

I  shall  give,  however,  but  one  taste  of  such  excessive  pickle. 
The  following  is  a  part  of  a  song  sung  by  a  schoolmaster,  whose 
animal  spirits  triumph  over  his  wig  and  habiliments : — 

^^7)10,  umas, 
I  love  a  lass 
'     As  cedar  tall  and  slender  ; 
Sweet  Cowslip's  grace 
Is  her  nominative  case, 
And  she's  of  the  feminine  gender. 

(Pleasant  bit  of  superfluous  information  !) 

Rorum,  corum, 
Sunt  Divorum, 

Harum  scarura  Divo ; 
Tag-rag,  merry-derry,  periwig,  and  hat-band. 

Hie  hoc  horum,  genitive. 

A  collection  of  songs,  particularly  street  songs,  goodi  and  bad 
(that  is  to  say,  very  bad,  or  unintentionally  absurd),  remains  to 
be  made  by  some  "  competent  hand,"  and  would  be  a  rich  exhi- 
bition of  popular  feeling.  A  distinguished  living  writer  and 
statesman,  wlio  is  great  enough  to  be  a  thorough  humanist,  and 
to  think  nothing  beneath  him  wliich  interests  his  fellow-creatures, 
is  in  possession  of  some  such  collection,  and  might  perhaps  allow 
it  to  be  used.  Materials  for  such  things  have  influenced  the  fate 
of  kingdoms  ;  and  what  is  more,  or  at  least  no  anti-climax.  Uncle 
Toby  patronized  them.  Everybody  knows  how  fond  he  was  of 
the  tune  of  LillibuUero  ;  his  comfort  under  all  afflictions, — con- 
troversy, surgery,  and  Dr.  Slop. 

The  late  Mr.  Mathews,  a  man  of  genius  in  his  way,  an  imitator 
of  mind  as  well  as  manner,  and  a  worthy  contributor  to  the  wit 
which  he  collected  from  friends  and  kindred,  was  a  disburser  of 
much  admirable   "  acute   nonsense,"  which  it  is   a  pity  not  to 


36  AN  ILLUSTRATIVE  ESSAY 

preserve.  What  could  be  better  than  his  Scotchwoman  ?  or  his 
foreigners  ?  or  the  gentleman  who,  "  with  infinite  promptitude  of 
mind,  cut  off  the  lion's  head  ?"  or  the  Englishman,  who  after 
contemplating  Mount  Vesuvius,  and  comparing  it  with  its  fame 
(and  himself),  exclaimed,  snapping  his  fingers  at  it,  "  You're  a 
humbug  !" 

Endless  are  the  "  quips  and  cranks"  of  Wit  and  Humor, 
Puns  (Pointes  ?)  are  banished  from  good  company  at  present, 
though  kings  once  encouraged  and  Csesar  and  Bacon  recorded 
them,  and  Cicero  and  Shakspeare  seem  to  have  thought  them  part 
of  the  common  property  of  good  spirits.  They  are  tiresome 
when  engrossing,  and  execrable,  if  bad  ;  at  least,  if  not  very 
and  elaborately  bad,  and  of  malice  prepense.  But  a  pun  may 
contain  wit  of  the  first  water.  Those  of  Hood  are  astonishinff 
for  their  cleverness,  abundance,  and  extravagance. 

Ben  Battle  was  a  soldier  bold, 

And  us'd  to  war's  alarms  ; 
But  a  cannon-ball  took  off  his  legs, 

So  he  laid  dotvn  his  arms. 
Now  as  they  bore  him  oft"  the  field, 

Said  he,  "  Let  others  shoot ; 
For  here  I  leave  my  second  leg, 

Jlnd  the  Forty-second  Foot  " 

And  in  another  song,  with  an  astounding  confusion  of  ideas, 
natural  in  one  sense,  and  impossible  in  the  other ; — 

And  then  he  tried  to  sing  "  All's  well," 

But  couldn't  though  he  tried  ; 
His  head  wa^  turn'd,  and  so  he  chevi'd 

His  pigtail  till  he  died. 

The  court-fool's  pun  upon  Archbishop  Laud  was  a  good 
one  : — 

Great  praise  to  God,  and  little  Laud  to  the  devil. 

Good  Macaronic  verses  are  laughable  from  the  combination  of 
the  familiar  and  unfamiliar  in  the  mixture  of  the  two  languages, 
especially  if  one  of  them  be  Greek  or  Latin.  It  is  like  forcing 
a  solemn  schoolmaster  to  join  in  the  antics  of  his  boys.     In  Dr. 


ON  WIT  AND  HUMOR.  37 

King's  Anglo-Greek  version  of  the  children's  song,  "  Boys,  boys, 
come  out  to  play,"  the  schoolmaster  himself  seems  to  have  volun- 
teered his  services.  The  doctor  is  bantering  the  pedantries  of 
his  time,  and  gives  it  as  a  passage  from  a  Greek  author.*  It  is 
here  printed  in  English  characters,  "  for  the  benefit  (as  authors 
used  to  say)  of  the  country  gentlemen,"  but  in  truth,  for  the 
amusement  of  the  numerous  clever  readers  now-a-days,  who  have 
not  happened  to  be  taught  Greek. 

Kuinmete,  Mei-boies  ;  Meiboies,  kummete  plaiein  : 
Mone  isasbritas  theberei  topa  nouna  diai : 
(the  moon  is  as  bright  as  the  very  top  o'  noon-day) 

Kummete  sun  houpo,  sun  loudo  gummete  kaulo  : 
Leusete  supperan,  Mei-boies,  leusete  beddon. 
Sun  tois  komraidoisin  enri  stretessi  plaontes. 

There  is  good  English-Latin  writing  mixed  with  baser  matter, 
in  Ruggle's  comedy  o^  Ignoramus,  which  was  twice  played  at 
Cambridge  before  James  I.,  and  made  his  Majesty  hardly  know 
how  to  endure  himself  for  laughing.  Ignoramus,  who  talks  Law- 
Latin  and  French,  is  a  barrister  answering  to  his  name,  and  in 
love  with  the  fair  Rosabella,  to  whom  he  promises 

Farthingales  biggos,  kirtellos,  et  periwiggos. 

He  complains  of  the  heat  and  the  press  of  suitors  in  court,  and 
calls  his  clerks  about  him  when  he  returns  to  chambers. f 

O  valde  caleor  ;  O  chaud,  chaud,  chaud.  In  nomine  Dei,  ubi  sunt  clerici 
mei  jam  ?     Dulman,  Dulman. 

Bui.  Hie,  Magister  Ignoramus,  vous  avez  Dulman. 


*  I  learn  this  from  "  Specimens  of  Macaronic  Poetry"  (8vo.,  1831), 
which  originally  appeared  in  the  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

t  As  the  passage  is  worth  something  for  its  pleasantry  apart  from  the 
jargon,  it  is  here  translated,  with  the  retention  only  of  the  French  and  an 
occasional  law  phrase. 

Igno.  I'm  terribly  hot.  O  chaud,  chaud,  chaud.  In  the  name  of  God, 
where  have  my  clerks  got  to  ?     Dulman,  Dulman  ? 

Dulman  (entering)    Here  am  I,  sir.     Vous  avez  Dulman. 


298S20 


38  AN  ILLUSTRATIVE  ESSAY 

Igno.  Meltor,  Dulman,  meltor.  Rubba  me  cum  towallio,  rubba.  Ubi 
est  Pec  us  ? 

Pec.  Hie,  sir. 

Igno.  Fac  ventum,  Pecus.     Ita,  sic,  sic.     Ubi  est  Fledwit  ? 

Dul.  Non  est  inventus. 

Igno.  Ponite  nunc  chlamydes  vestras  super  me,  ne  capiam  frigus.  Sic, 
sic.     Ainsi  bien  faict. 

Dul.  Juio,  magister,  titillasti  punctum  legis  hodie. 

Igno.  Ha,  ha,  he  !  Puto  titillabam.  Si  le  nom  del  granteur  ou  grante 
soit  rased  ou  interlined  en  faict  pol,  le  faict  est  grandement  suspicious. 

Dul.  Et  nient  obstant,  si  faict  pol,  &c.,  &c.     Oh  illud  etiam  in  Covin. 

Igno.  Ha,  ha,  he ! 

Pec.  At  id,  de  au  faict  pendu  en  le  smoak,  nunquam  audivi  titillatum 
melius. 

Igno.  Ah,  ha,  he  !     Quid  tu  dicis,  Musaee  ? 

Mus.  Equidem  ego  parum  intellexi. 

Igno.  Tu  es  gallicrista,  vocatus  a  coxcomb : — nunquam  faciam  te  Legis- 
tam. 

Dul.  Nunquam,  nunquam  ;  nam  ille  fuit  universitans. 

Igno.  Sunt  magni  idiotae,  et  clerici  nihilorum,  isti  universitantes.  Mirer 
quomodo  spendisti  tuum  tempus  inter  eos. 


Igno.  I  melt,  Dulman,  I  melt.  Rub  me  with  the  towel.  Where's  Pe- 
cus .' 

Pecus.  (entering)  Here,  sir. 

Igno.  Air,  Pecus,  air.     So,  so.     Where's  Fledwit .' 

Dul.     J\ron  est  inventus. 

Igno.  Now  put  your  cloaks  over  me,  that  I  mayn't  catch  cold.  So,  so. 
Ainsi  bie7i  faict. 

Dul.  Faith,  sir,  you  tickled  'em  prettily  to-day  with  that  point  of  law. 

Igno.  Ha,  ha,  he  !  I  think  I  did.  Si  le  nom  del  granteur  ou  grante  soit 
rased  ou  interlined  en  faict  pol,  le  faict  est  grandement  suspicious. 

Dul.  Et  nient  obstant,  si  faict  pol,  &c.,  &c.  Oh,— and  that  also  in  Co- 
vin. 

Igno.  Ah ,  ha,  he  ! 

Pec.  And  that  about  the  faict  pendu  en  le  smoak  !  I  never  heard  any- 
thing tickled  better. 

Igno.  Ah,  ha,  he  ?     What's  your  opinion,  Musaeus  .' 

Mus.  I  can't  say  I  quite  understood  it. 

Igno.  You're  a  gallicrista,  as  we  say  ;  to-wit,  a  coxcomb.  I  shall  never 
make  a  lawyer  of  you. 

Dul.  Never,  never.     He  was  at  college. 

Igno.  They're  devilish  ignorant,  all  those  college  people.  I  wonder 
how  you  spent  your  time  among  'em. 


ON  WIT  AND  HUMOR.  39 

Mus.  Ut  plurimum  versatus  sum  in  Logica.  ' 

Igno    Logica  ?  qua  villa,  quod  burgum  est  Logica? 

Mits.  Est  una  artium  liberalium. 

Igno.  Liberalium  ?  Sic  putabam.  In  nomine  Dei,  stude  artes  parcas  et 
lucrosas  :  non  est  mundus  pro  artibus  liberalibus  jam. 

Mtis.  Deditus  etiam  fui  amori  Pliilosophiae. 

Igno.  Amori  .'  Quid  !  Es  pro  bagaschiis  et  strumpetis  ?  Si  custodis 
malam  regulam,  non  es  pro  me.  Sursum  reddam  te  in  manus  parentum 
iterum. 

Mtis.  Dii  faxint. 

Mus.  In  making  myself  a  master  in  Logic. 

Igno.  In  Logic  .•■     Where's  that  ?     I  never  heard  of  the  place. 

Afus.  'Tis  one  of  the  liberal  arts. 

Igno.  Oh,  the  liberal  arts,  is  it  ?  I  thought  so.  In  the  name  of  God, 
study  some  art  that  will  get  you  a  livelihood.  This  is  no  world  nowadays 
for  liberal  arts. 

jMus.  I  was  also  given  to  the  love  of  Philosophy. 

Igno.  The  devil  you  were  !  In  love,  too  !  Oh,  you'll  never  do  for  me. 
A  pretty  fellow,  to  talk  to  me  of  his  jades  and  baggages  !  If  those  are  the 
sort  of  terms  you  keep,  I  must  send  you  back  to  your  parents. 

Mus.  (aside)  God  grant  it ! 

Macaronic  poetry  (Maccaronea)  originated,  like  most  literary- 
novelties,  in  Italy  ;  and  is  understood  to  have  derived  its  name 
from  the  compound  called  Maccaroni.  It  is  surprising,  consi- 
dering the  multitude  of  scholarly  wits,  that  more  of  it  has  not 
been  written,  and  better.  Drummond  of  Hawtliornden  appears 
to  have  introduced  it  into  this  island.  He  is  the  author  of  a  Ma- 
caronic poem  on  a  rustic  fight,  called  Polemo-Middinia,  singularly 
coarse  for  a  poet  so  elegant,  but  showing  a  considerable  feeling 
for  humor.  "  Grinning  like  the  devil  "  is  "  girnans  more  divcl- 
li ;"  and  of  a  man  wliose  name  he  cannot  recollect,  he  says, 
"  Deil  stick  it,  ignoro  nomen.^^  The  names  have  a  ludicrous 
effect. 

Hie  aderant  Geordy  Akinhedius,  et  little  Johnus, 

Et  Jamy  Richseus,  et  stout  Michel  Ilendersonus, 

Qui  jolly  trippas  ante  alios  dansare  solebat, 

Et  bobbare  bene,  et  lassas  kissare  bonceas  ; 

Duncan  Olyphantus,  valde  stalvartti.i,  etejus 

Filius  eldcstus  jolyboyus,  atque  oldmoudus  (old  mouthed  ?) 

Qui  pleugham  longo  gaddo  drivare  solebat, 

Et  Rob  Gib  wantontis  homo,  atque  Oliver  Hutchin. 


40  AN  ILLUSTRATIVE  ESSAY 

Among  other  combatants  is  "  Jamy  Tomsonus,"  perhaps  an 
ancestor  of  the  poet,  and  a  certain  "  Norland-born"  man,  whose 
opinions  in  church  and  state  were  the  same  as  the  author's ; — 

Et  unus 
'  Norland-bornus  homo,  valde  valde  anti-covenanter. 

Drummond's  is  the  best  Macaronic  we  possess.  The  next  in 
celebrity  is  one  by  Dr.  Geddes  on  a  political  meeting  at  the  Lon- 
don Tavern.  It  seems  impossible  to  help  being  ludicrous  now 
and  then  in  compositions  of  this  nature  :  but  the  Doctor  is  not 
without  genuine  drollery. 

Thick-shortus  sed  homo,  cui  nomen  credo  Bevellus, 
Upstartans  medio,  &c. 

Iratus  Adairus 
Surgit ;  et,  aptato  periwig,  grandi  ore  profatur, 
Quis  furor,  O  cives  ? 

Subsequitur  plausus  magnus,  sed  non  generalis : 
Nam  quidem  expressly  venerc,  ut  speechificarent. 
Hos  inter  juvenis  fervens  Mancastrius  unus, 
Nomine  Cooperus,  tales  dedit  ore  loquelas. 
Shall  homines.  Chairman,  hiberno  tempore  longum 
Carpere  iter,  longam  atque  insomnes  ducere  noctem, 
Et  nil  say,  nil  do  7    Proh  Juppiter  !  baud  ita ;  no,  no. 
Ergo  egomet,  mecum  et  plus  centum  millia  more,  sir, 
Dicimus  omnimodo  passandas  esse  Resolvas. 
Non  adeo  multum,  Chairman,  potavimus  usque 
Ut  non  possimus  de  magnis  thinkere  rebus. 
Ergo  iterum  dico,  passandas  esse  Resolvas  ! 
Jiico  passandas,  passandas  esse  Resolvas  ! 

Geddes,  who  was  a  very  irritable  good  Christian,  must  have 
written  this  passage  con  amore.  But  I  must  hasten  out  of  his 
company. 

Of  Nonsense  Verses  I  am  acquainted  with  no  good  specimens, 
or  indeed  with  any  beyond  a  line  or  two,  though  wits  disburse 
them  occasionally.  I  am  surprised  that  many  have  not  been 
written,  considering  the  opportunities  they  afford,  not  only  for 
"  acute  nonsense,"  but  the  safest  yet  most  galling  satire.  In 
proportion,  however,  to  the  safety,  would  be  the  meanness  j  so 


ON  WIT  AND  HUMOR.  41 

that  the  best  wits  are  not  likely  to  use  them  for  that  purpose. 
Still  they  might  produce  amusement  of  other  kmds,  and  display 
combinations  of  fancy  the  most  opposite  and  unlocked  for. 

As  to  Acrostics,  Anagrams,  Altars,  and  otlier  mechanical 
shapes  of  wit,  and  to  false  wit  in  general,  nothing  need  be  said 
on  the  former  subjects,  and  I  have  room  but  for  a  word  on  the 
last.  You  may  know  false  wit  as  you  may  know  any  other  kind 
of  falsehood.  It  pretends  to  be  natural,  and  is  affected  ;  to  be  at 
its  ease,  and  is  laborious  ;  to  be  uttering  a  series  of  truths,  and 
is  only  hampering  itself  with  contradictions.  Or  if  it  runs  chat- 
tering on,  and  does  not  mean  to  be  false,  the  effect  is  not  true  to 
the  intention.  It  has  all  the  mirth  to  itself,  hard  as  you  may  try 
to  laugh  with  it.  There  is  just  the  same  sort  of  difference  be- 
tween a  flow  of  false  wit  and  of  true,  as  between  buffo  music 
like  that  of  Mozart  or  Rossini  and  the  melancholy  merriments  of 
a  fiddle-scraper  in  the  streets.  In  the  former  the  most  capricious 
notes  have  their  reason  and  their  relations,  and  you  feel  the  har- 
monious result.  In  the  latter,  every  hit  is  a  miss,  and  discord 
the  consequence,  and  you  only  wonder  how  the  poor  man  can 
"go  on." 

8th.  Cross-Purposes  ;  or  Contradictory  Intentions  mistaken  ly 
their  Entertainers  for  Identical  Ones.  We  have  hitherto  been 
consi'dering  Wit  by  itself,  or  as  paramount  in  its  connexion  with 
Humor.  I  now  come  to  Humor  paramount  over  Wit ;  for  per- 
sons are  invariably  concerned,  as  well  as  ideas  ;  and  where  this 
is  the  case,  and  the  humor  is  of  the  best  kind,  the  wit  as  natu- 
rally becomes  subordinate  to  it  as  words  are  to  things. 

Cross-purposes,  however,  may  with  impunity  develope  the 
smallest  amount  of  humor,  compared  with  any  other  of  its  forms, 
because  the  amusement  produced  by  their  mere  action  is  irre- 
sistible. The  reason  is,  that  while  the  parties  are  conscious  of 
nothing  but  their  respective  intentions,  or  mystified  by  the  doubts 
arising  with  regard  to  those  of  one  another,  the  spectator  is  in  the 
secrets  of  both.  He  is  triumphing  over  their  ignorance,  and  an- 
ticipating their  discoveries.  Admirable  scenes  of  this  kind  are 
to  be  found  in  the  little  comedy  from  the  Spanish,  entitled  Three 
and  the  Deuce  ;  in  the  farce  of  B/ue  Devils  ;  the  comedy  of  the 
Bcaux^  Stratagem ;  and  in  the  Mock-Doctor,  or  Medicin  Malgri 


42  AN  ILLUSTRATIVE  ESSAY 


Lui  of  Moliere.  In  this  farce  a  wood-cutter  has  had  a  dispute 
with  his  wife,  which  she  is  resolved  to  make  him  pay  for.  Two 
footmen  happen  to  ask  her  the  way  to  the  residence  of  a  famous  phy- 
sician, whose  attendance  is  required  by  their  master.  She  tells 
them  that  the  physician,  though  a  great  man,  has  some  remarka- 
ble  eccentricities,  among  which  is  a  fancy  for  cutting  his  own 
wood,  and  for  persisting,  if  surprised  during  the  employment,  in 
the  pretence  of  being  a  very  wood-cutter  and  peasant ;  a  folly, 
she  adds,  from  which  nothing  can  rouse  him  but  a  drubbinor. 
The  footmen,  grasping  their  sticks  at  this  news,  out  of  zeal  for 
their  master's  service,  courteously  thank  the  good  woman,  and 
proceed  in  search  of  the  involuntary  physician.  They  find  him 
singing  and  drinking  during  his  work ;  and  after  vainly  endea- 
voring, in  the  most  respectful  manner,  to  recall  him  to  a  proper 
sense  of  his  profession,  proceed,  with  many  apologies,  to  cudgel 
him  into  the  acknowledgment. 


to 


.  Sganarelle  (writhing,  and  rubbing  his  shoulders).  And  so  I'm  a  phy- 
sician, am  I  ? 

Valers.  The  greatest  in  the  world. 

Lucas.  There's  nobody  like  you. 

Sga.  Well ;  devil  take  me  if  I  was  aware  of  it. 

Val.  You're  to  have  whatever  you  ask. 

Sga.  You  don't  say  so  ?  Oh,  I  am  a  physician,  there  can  be  no  doubt  of 
it.     I  had  forgotten ;  but  now  I  recollect. 

But  it  is  an  injustice  to  this  laughable  scene  to  quote  only  a 
fragment  of  it ;  nor  is  the  one  here  given  by  any  means  the  cream 
of  the  jest.  The  whole  is  a  masterpiece  of  art  and  drollery.  I 
had  translated  the  greater  part  of  it  for  these  pages  ;  but  found 
that  I  was 'extending  them  beyond  all  feasible  bounds. 

9th.  Unconscious  Absurdity  in  a  man's  character,  apart  from 
mere  circumstances. — Half  the  humor  in  the  world  may  be  said 
to  be  owing  to  this  fertile  source  of  the  ridiculous  ;  perhaps,  in  a 
high  and  pathetic  sense,  all  of  it,  saving  one  exquisite  class,  in 
which  by  most  people  it  is  most  thought  to  abound.  "  Nay,  if 
you  mean  vie  by  that,"  said  Sir  Godfrey  Kneller  to  a  man  at 
whose  imitations  of  his  friends  he  had  been  laughing,  "  there  you 
are  out."     He  saw  the  likeness,  yet  saw  it  not. 

But  I  am  here  speaking  of  it  in  its  form  the  least  mixed,  as  in 


ON  WIT  AND  HUMOR.  43 

Moliere's  Monsieur  de  Pourceaugnac,  and  his  Fcmmcs  Sgavantes, 
in  which  latter  play  a  set  of  people  expose,  in  themselves,  the  ab- 
surdities which  they  charge  on  others.  One  immortal  little  pas- 
sage in  particular  is  worth  a  thousand  instances.  I  have  been 
told  that  whenever  the  actors  come  to  it  on  the  Parisian  stage,  the 
audience  are  sure  to  listen  with  breathless  attention,  and  to  laugh 
as  if  they  had  not  heard  it  a  thousand  times.  An  author  is  ha- 
ranguing on  the  folly  of  authors,  who  pester  people  with  reading 
their  compositions  to  them  : — 

Le  defaut  des  auteura,  dans  leurs  productions, 
C'est  d'en  tyranniser  les  conversations,  &c. 

It  is  the  vice  of  authors  to  become  absolute  tyrants  in  private,  and  pre- 
vent all  conversation.  Meet  with  them  where  you  will,  at  coui't,  out  of 
doors,  or  at  table,  there  they  are,  reading  their  detestable  verses.  For  my 
part,  I  can  see  nothing  so  ridiculous  in  the  whole  world  as  a  fellow  going 
about  with  this  kind  of  petition  in  his  hand  for  praise  ;  seizing  on  the  first 
ears  he  meets  with,  and  nailing  them  down  to  martyrdom.  I  'm  of  the 
opinion  of  the  Greek,  who  expressly  forbids  such  absurdity,  and  holds  it  to 
be  utterly  unworthy  of  a  man  of  sense.  {He  takes  a  paper  out  of  his 
pocket.)     By-the-by,  here  are  some  little  verses  of  mine     *     *     « 

Audience  roar  with  laughter. 

loth.  Conscious  Humors  Indulged;  as  in  the  characters  of 
Falstaff  and  Lord  Foppington,  of  Matthew  Bramble  in  Smollett, 
and  of  Sir  Walter  Scott's  Antiquary. 

1 1th.  Humors  of  Nations  and  Classes  ;  as  Irishmen  and  French- 
men, Englishmen,  Spaniards,  Beggars,  Lawyers,  Physicians, 
Friars,  Actors,  (Sec.  Chaucer  is  famous  for  them ;  so  are  Le 
Sao^e  and  Boccaccio,  Addison  and  Fielding.  I  regret  that  I  can- 
not quote  passages  out  of  the  exquisite  Tory  Foxhunter  of  Addi- 
son ;  especially  as  he  is  still  pretending  to  be  alive  among  us. 
Everybody  knows  the  no  less  admirable  Squire  Western  of  Field- 
in  cr.  Lawyer  Dowling  in  Tom  Jones,  who  had  so  much  to  attend 
to  that  he  wished  he  could  "  cut  himself  into  a  thousand  pieces," 
had  his  prototype  in  Chaucer's  Lawyer,  of  whom  we  are  told 
that 

No  where  so  busy  a  man  as  he  there  n'as 


44  AN  ILLUSTRATIVE  ESSAY 

(was  not) 

And  yet  he  seemed  busier  than  he  was. 

I  quote  a  few  sallies  from  Sydney  Smith,  perfect  in  wit,  and 
exquisite  for  the  scholarly  precision  of  style  before  mentioned : — 

Classically -worded  Banter  and  Simile. — "  Whoever  has  had  the  good 
fortune  to  see  Dr.  Parr's  wig,  must  have  observed,  that  while  it  trespasses 
a  little  on  the  orthodox  magnitude  of  perukes  in  the  anterior  parts,  it 
scorns  even  episcopal  limits  behind,  and  swells  out  into  boundless  convex- 
ity of  frizz,  the  jieya  Bavfia*  of  barbers,  and  the  terror  of  the  literary  world. 
After  the  manner  of  his  wig  the  Doctor  has  constructed  his  sermon, 
giving  a  discourse  of  no  common  length,  and  subjoining  an  immeasurable 
mass  of  notes,  which  appear  to  concern  every  learned  thing,  every  learned 
man,  and  almost  every  unlearned  man,  since  the  beginning  of  the  world." 
— Works,  vol.  i.,  p.  l.f 

Great  Writers  ca7itingly  criticised  by  small  Writers — "  Of  whom  Dr. 
Parr  might  be  happy  to  say,  that  they  have  profundity  without  obscurity — 
perspicuity  without  prolixity — ornament  without  glare — terseness  without 
barrenness — penetration  without  subtlety — comprehensiveness  without  di- 
gression— and  a  great  number  of  other  things  without  a  great  number  of 
other  things." — Id.,  p.  S. 

Phenomeiia  of  Botany  Bay. — "  In  this  remote  part  of  the  earth,  nature 
(having  made  horses,  oxen,  ducks,  geese,  oaks,  elms,  and  all  regular  and 
useful  productions,  for  the  rest  of  the  world)  seems  determined  to  have  a 
bit  of  play,  and  amuses  herself  as  she  pleases.  Accordingly  she  makes 
cherries  with  the  stone  on  the  outside,  and  a  monstrous  animal  as  tall  as  a 
grenadier,  with  the  head  of  a  rabbit,  a  tail  as  big  as  a  bedpost,  hopping 
along  at  the  rate  of  five  hops  to  a  mile,  with  three  or  four  young  kanga- 
roos looking  out  of  its  false  uterus  to  see  what  is  passing.  Then  comes  a 
quadruped  as  big  as  a  large  cat,  with  the  eyes,  color,  and  skin  of  a  mole, 
and  the  bill  and  web-leet  of  duck — puzzling  Dr.  Shaw,  and  rendering  the 
latter  half  of  his  life  miserable,  from  the  utter  inability  to  determine 
whether  it  was  a  bird  or  a  beast.  Add  to  this  a  parrot,  with  the  eyes  of  a 
sea-gull ;  a  skate,  with  the  head  of  a  shark  ;  and  a  bird  of  such  monstrous 

*  Marvel. 

t  In  excuse  for  thus  sporting  with  the  Doctor's  wig  while  he  was  living, 
Sydney  Smith  added  the  following  note  respecting  him  to  the  passage  in  his 
collected  works : — "  A  great  scholar,  as  rude  and  violent  as  most  Greek 
scholars  are,  unless  they  happen  to  be  bishops.  He  has  left  nothing  behind 
him  worth  leaving:  he  was  rather  fitted  for  the  law  than  the  church,  and 
would  have  been  a  more  considerable  man  if  he  had  been  more  knocked 
about  among  his  equals.  He  lived  with  country  gentlemen  and  clergymen, 
who  flattered  and  feared  him." 


ON  WIT  AND  HUMOR.  45 

dimensions,  that  a  side  bone  of  it  will  dine  three  real  carnivorous  English- 
men;— together  with  many  other  productions  that  agitate  Sir  Joseph* 
and  fill  him  with  mingled  emotions  of  distress  and  delight.''' — Works,  vol. 
i.,    p.  322. 

A  Contrast. — "A  picture  is  drawn  of  a  clergyman  with  £]30  per  an- 
num, who  combines  all  moral,  physical,  and  intellectual  advantages  ;  a 
learned  man,  dedicating  himself  intensely  to  the  care  of  his  parish  ;  of 
charming  manners  and  dignified  deportment;  six  feet  two  inches  high, 
beautifully  proportioned,  with  a  magnificent  counteiiance,  expressive  oj 
all  the  cardinal  virtues  and  the  ten  comtnandinents  ; — and  it  is  asked 
with  an  air  of  triumph,  if  such  a  man  as  this  will  fall  into  contempt  on 
account  of  his  poverty  ?  But  substitute  for  him  an  average,  ordinary,  un- 
interesting minister  ;  obese,  dumpy  ;  neither  ill  natured  nor  good  natured  ; 
neither  learned  nor  ignorant ;  striding  over  the  stiles  to  church  with  a 
second-rate  wife,  dusty  and  deliquescent,  and  four  parochial  children, 
full  of  catechism  and  bread  and  butter  ;  or  let  him  be  seen  in  one  of 
those  Shem-Ham-and-Japhet  buggies  made  on  Mount  Ararat  soon  after 
the  subsidence  of  the  w-aters,  driving  in  the  High-street  of  Edmonton, 
among  all  his  penurious,  saponaceous,  oleagineous  parishioners.  Can  any 
man  of  sense  say  that  all  these  outward  circumstances  of  the  ministers  of 
religion  have  no  bearing  on  religion  itself?" — Vol.  iii.,  p.  200. 

It  might  be  answered,  that  these  two  are  not  the  only  descrip- 
tions of  people  from  whom  the  choice  of  a  Christian  pastor  might 
be  made  ;  but  the  writer's  wit  ran  away  with  his  argument. 

Wants  of  Ireland. — "  What  is  the  object  of  all  government  ?  The 
object  of  all  government  is  roast  mutton,  potatoes,  claret,  a  stout  consta- 
ble, an  honest  justice,  a  clean  highway,  a  free  chapel.  What  trash  to  be 
bawling  in  the  streets  about  the  Green  Isle,  and  the  Isle  of  the  Ocean ; 
the  bold  anthem  of  Erin  go  bragh  !  A  far  better  anthem  would  be,  Erin 
go  bread  and  cheese ;  Erin  go  cabins  that  keep  out  the  rain ;  Erin  go 
pantaloons  without  holes  in  them!" — Id.,  p.  406. 

Very  ludicrously  turned,  this  ;  irresistibly  comic  ;  very  sen- 
sible ;  though,  after  all,  it  does  not  quite  settle  the  question  be- 
tween the  two  countries.  Nations  do  not  live  entirely  by  bread 
and  cheese  alone,  or  even  by  the  clerical  comforts  of  roast  mut- 
ton  and  claret.  Sydney  Smith,  like  Swift,  ought  to  have  been 
a  statesman  instead  of  a  clergyman.  He  had  a  genuine  Chris- 
tian sympathy  with  his  fellow-creatures,  and  far  more  serious 
intentions  in  almost  all  he  wrote  than  the  gravest  of  his  oppo- 
nents could  well   imagine  j  but  the  habit  of  wit  subjected  him  to 

*  Banks. 


46  AN  ILLUSTRATIVE  ESSAY 

the  charcre  of  levity  ;  consciousness  of  his  powers  tempted  him 
to  defy  the  charge  ;  and  it  must  be  owned  that  when  profession- 
al interests  came  into  play,  he  ceased  to  exhibit  his  customary 
greatness  of  motive.  He  was  an  extraordinary  man,  however, 
and  did  a  great  deal  of  good. 

r2th.  Humors  of  Mere  Temperament;  as  Moliere's  Malade 
Imaginaire,  Sheridan's  Sir  Anthony  Absolute,  &c. 

13th.  Moral  or  Intellectual  Incongruities;  as  in  all  humors 
more  or  less,  conventionally  considered,  or  with  regard  to  ap- 
pearances ;  but  particularly  in  Don  Quixote,  who  is  the  repre- 
sentative of  the  most  affecting  struggles  of  society  itself,  if  socie- 
ty did  but  know  it.  And  indeed  society  seems  to  be  finding  it 
out,  and  to  be  at  once  restoring  Don  Quixote  to  his  reason,  and 
giving  him  hopes  of  his  island.  Veniat  regnum.  A  delicious 
minor  character  of  the  incongruous  order,  is  that  of  Major  Bath 
in  Fielding's  novel  of  Amelia ;  a  poor  and  pompous  but  noble- 
minded  gentleman,  who  swears  "  by  the  honor  and  dignity  of 
man,"  and  is  caught  cooking  some  gruel  in  a  saucepan  for  his 
ailincr  sister. 

14th  and  last,  and  above  all,  not  only  as  far  as  delight  and 
hope  go,  but  wisdom  and  success  itself  (for  they  are  Don  Quix- 
ote's descendants  without  his  madness  or  hollow  cheeks,  and 
are  possessed  by  anticipation  of  his  island).  Genial  Contradictions 
qf  the  Conventional,  as  exemplified  in  the  Sir  Roger  de  Coverleys, 
Parson  Adamses,  and  the  prince  of  them  all.  Uncle  Toby.  The 
people  in  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield  are  related  to  them,  especially 
Moses;  but  they  are  for  the  most  part  as  sophisticate  in  the  com- 
parison, as  Goldsmith  was  conscious  and  uneasy.  Nothing  can 
surpass  Addison's  treatment  of  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley ;  but  for 
the  honor  of  Nature's  first  fresh  impulses,  and  with  the  leave  of 
an  admirable  living  writer  before  mentioned  (whom  I  have  the 
honor  to  call  my  friend)  let  it  never  be  forgotten  that  Steele  invent- 
ed him.  Steele  invented  all  the  leading  characters  in  the  Spec- 
tator, all  those  in  the  Tatler  and  Guardian  ;  and  is  in  fact  the 
great  inventive  humorist  of  those  works,  as  well  as  its  most  pa- 
thetic story-teller;  though  Addison  was  the  greater  worker  out  of 
the  characters,  and  far  surpassed  him  in  wit  and  style.  One 
little  trait   related  of  Sir  Roger  on   his  first   appearance — his 


ON  WIT  AND  HUMOR.  47 

talking  all  the  way  up  stairs  with  the  footman, — contains  the 
gei'm  of  the  best  things  developed  by  Addison. 

As  to  Parson  Adams,  and  his  fist,  and  his  good  heart,  and  his 
Mschylus  which  he  couldn't  see  to  read,  and  his  rejoicing  at  be- 
ing delivered  from  a  ride  in  the  carriage  with  Mr.  Peter  Pounce, 
whom  he  had  erroneously  complimented  on  the  smallness  of  his 
parochial  means,  let  everybody  rejoice  that  there  has  been  a 
man  in  the  world  called  Henry  Fielding  to  think  of  such  a 
character,  and  thousands  of  good  people  sprinkled  about  that 
world  to  answer  for  the  truth  of  it ;  for  had  there  not  been,  what 
would  have  been  its  value  1  We  are  too  apt  to  suspect  ill  of  one 
another,  from  the  doubt  whether  others  are  as  honest  as  our- 
selves, and  will  not  deceive  us  ;  forgetting,  in  common  modesty, 
that  if  we  ourselves  are  honest  people,  so  must  be  thousands 
more. 

But  what  shall  I  say  to  thee,  thou  quintessence  of  the  milk  ot 
human  kindness,  thou  reconciler  of  war  (as  far  as  it  was  once 
necessary  to  reconcile  it),  thou  returner  to  childhood  during 
peace,  thou  lover  of  widows,  thou  master  of  the  best  of  corporals, 
thou  whistler  at  excommunications,  thou  iiigh  and  only  final 
Christian  gentleman,  thou  pitier  of  the  devil  himself,  divine 
Uncle  Toby  !  Why,  this  1  will  say,  made  bold  by  thy  example, 
and  caring  nothing  for  what  anybody  may  think  of  it  who  docs 
not  in  some  measure  partake  of  thy  nature,  that  he  who  created 
thee  was  the  wisest  man  since  the  days  of  Siiakspeare  ;  and  that 
Shakspeare  himself,  mighty  reflector  of  things  as  they  were,  but 
no  anticipator,  never  arrived  at  a  character  like  thine.  No  master 
of  bonhomie  was  he.  No  such  thing,  alas  !  did  he  find  in  the 
parson  at  Stratford-upon-Avon,  or  in  the  tap-rooms  on  his  way 
to  town,  or  in  those  of  Eastcheap,  or  in  tlie  courts  of  Elizabeth 
and  James,  or  even  in  the  green-rooms  of  the  Globe  and  Black- 
friars,  though  he  knew  Decker  himself,  and  probably  had  heard 
him  speak  of  such  a  man  as  Signer  Orlando  Friscobaldo.  Let 
him  afford  to  lose  the  glory  of  this  discovery ;  let  Decker  be 
enriched  with  it ;  and  let  Fielding  and  Sterne  have  the  renown 
of  finding  the  main  treasure.  As  long  as  the  character  of  Toby 
Shandy  finds  an  echo  in  the  heart  of  man,  the  heart  of  man  is 
noble.     It  awaits  the  impress  of  all  good  things,  and  may  pre- 


48  AN  ILLUSTRATIVE  ESSAY 

pare  for  as  many  surprises  in  the  moral  world,  as  science  has 
brought  about  in  the  physical. 

I  will  close  this  Essay  (would  that  it  had  been  worthier  of  the 
subject !)  with  a  few  disconnected  passages  from  Tristram  Shandy, 
worthy  to  be  had  in  everlasting  remembrance. 

Corporal  Trim  about  to  read  a  sermon. — "  If  you  have  any  objection," 
said  my  fatiier,  addressing  himself  to  Dr.  Slop.  "  Not  in  the  least,"  re- 
plied Dr.  Slop  :  "  for  it  does  not  appear  on  which  side  of  the  question  it  is 
wrote — it  may  be  a  composition  of  a  divine  of  our  church,  as  well  as  yours  ; 
so  that  we  run  equal  risques."  '"  Tis  wrote  upon  neither  side"  quoth 
Trim  ;  "for  'tis  only  upon  conscience,  an'  please  your  honors." 

Passage  of  an  Excommunicatio7i,  with  the  comment  upon  it. — "  May 
the  holy  and  eternal  Virgin  Mary,  mother  of  God,  curse  him  !  May  St. 
Michael,  the  advocate  of  holy  souls,  curse  him  !  May  all  the  angels  and 
archangels,  principalities  and  powers,  and  all  the  heavenly  armies,  curse 
him."  "  Our  armies  swore  tei'i-ibly  in  Flanders"  cried  my  uncle  Toby, 
"  but  nothing  to  this.     I  couldn't  find  it  in  my  heart  to  curse  my  dog  so." 

Meinento  and  Money. — "I  have  left  Trim  my  bowling-green,"  cried 
my  uncle  Toby.— J/?/  father  smiled. — "I  have  left  him,  moreover,  a  pen- 
sion," continued  my  uncle  Toby. — My  father  looked  grave.  "  Is  this  a 
fit  time,"  said  my  father  to  himself,  "  to  talk  of  pensions  and  grenadiers  .'" 

Unconscious  Self-betrayal  — "  I  am  at  a  loss.  Captain  Shandy,"  quoth 
Dr.  Slop,  "  to  determine  in  which  branch  of  learning  your  servant  shines 
most ;  whether  in  physiology  or  divinity."  Slop  had  not  forgot  Trim's 
comment  upon  the  sermon.  "  This  poor  fellow,"  continued  Dr.  Slop,  "  has 
had  the  misfortune  to  have  heard  some  superficial  empiric  discourse  upon 
this  point."  "  That  he  has,"  said  my  father.  "  Very  likely,"  said  my 
uncle.     "  I'm  sure  of  it,"  quoth  Yorick. 

War  and  the  Fly. — "  I  wish  the  whole  science  of  fortification,  with  all 
its  inventoi's,  at  the  devil,"  said  my  father.  '=  It  has  been  the  death  of 
thousands,  and  it  will  be  mine  in  the  end.  I  would  not,  I  would  not, 
brother  Toby,  have  my  brain  so  full  of  saps,  mines,  blinds,  gabions,  palli- 
sadoes,  ravelins,  half-moons,  and  such  trumpery,  to  be  the  proprietor  of 
Namur,  and  of  all  the  towns  in  Flanders  with  it." 

(Tristram's  father,  who  afterwards  apologizes  for  this  sally  of 
impatience,  was  not  aware  that  the  occupation  of  his  brother 
Toby's  head  with  all  this  scientific  part  of  war  was  the  very 
reason  why  he  did  not  think  of  it's  being  the  *'  death  of  thou- 
sands.") 

"  My  uncle  Toby  was  a  man  patient  of  injuries  ;  not  from  want  of  cour- 
age ;  I  have  told  you,  in  a  former  chapter,  that  he  was  a  man  of  courage; 


ON  WIT  AND  HUMOR.  49 


and  will  add  here,  that  where  just  occasions  presented,  or  called  it  forth, 
I  know  no  man  under  whose  arm  I  would  have  sooner  taken  shelter  ;  nor 
did  this  arise  from  any  insensibility  or  obtuseness  of  his  intellectual  parts  j 
for  he  felt  this  insult  of  my  father's  as  feelingly  as  a  man  could  do  ;  but  he 
was  of  a  peaceful,  placid  nature, — no  jarring  elements  in  it, — all  was  mixed 
up  so  kindly  within  him  :  my  uncle  Toby  had  scarcely  a  heart  to  retaliate 
upon  a  fly. 

"  Go,"  says  he,  one  day  at  dinner,  to  an  overgrown  one  which  had  buzz- 
ed about  his  nose,  and  tormented  him  cruelly  all  dinner-time,  and  which, 
after  infinite  attempts,  he  had  caught  at  last,  as  it  flew  by  him ;  "  I'll  not 
hurt  thee,"  says  my  uncle  Toby,  rising  from  his  chair,  and  going  across  the 
room  with  the  fly  in  his  hand ;  "  I'll  not  hurt  a  hair  of  thy  head.  Go," 
says  he,  lifting  up  the  sash,  and  opening  his  hand  as  he  spoke,  to  let  it 
escape;  •' go,  poor  devil!  get  thee  gone,  why  should  I  hurt  thee? — this 
world  surely  is  wide  enough  to  hold  both  thee  and  me." 

People  think  they  are  in  no  want  of  such  lessons  as  these 
nowadays ;  but  to  say  nothing  of  their  flattering  themselves  too 
miich  on  that  point  (for  there  are  "  flies  "  of  many  sizes),  it  is 
greatly  because  Sterne  has  taught  them.  This  illustrious  Irish- 
man (I  have  a  "  Shandean  "  reason  for  speaking  of  him  under 
that  title)  is  Rabelais,  reborn  at  a  riper  period  of  the  world,  and 
gifted  with  sentiment.  To  accuse  him  of  cant  and  sentimental- 
ity, is  itself  a  cant  or  an  ignorance  ;  or  at  least,  if  neither  of 
these,  it  is  but  to  misjudge  liim  from  an  excess  of  manner  here 
and  there.  The  matter  always  contains  the  solidest  substance 
of  truth  and  duty.  It  is  a  thousand  pities  he  retained  something 
of  the  coarseness  of  Rabelais,  because  it  prevents  his  book  from 
being  put  into  everybody's  hands  ;  though  upon  his  own  princi- 
ple of  turning  evil  to  good,  perhaps  even  this  blemish  has  served 
to  draw  attention  to  it.  Among  passages  which  are  supposed  to 
be  connected  with  that  coarseness,  but  really  are  not  so,  are  some 
which  are  yet  destined  to  be  of  important  service  to  mankind  ; 
and  if  I  were  requested  to  name  the  book  of  all  others,  which 
combined  Wit  and  Humor  under  their  highest  appearance  of 
levity  with  the  profoundest  wisdom,  it  would  be  Tristram  Shandy, 

4 


50  CHAUCER. 


CHAUCER, 

BORN,    1324?— DIED,    1400? 


The  graver  portion  of  the  genius  of  this  great  poet  will  be  more 
fitly  noticed  in  the  volume  to  be  entitled  Action  and  Passion.  He 
is  here  only  in  his  gayer  mood. 

I  retain  the  old  spelling  for  three  reasons : — first,  because  it  is 
pleasant  to  know  the  actual  words  of  such  a  writer,  as  far  as 
they  can  be  ascertained  ;  second,  because  the  antiquity  is  part  of 
the  costume  ;  and  third,  because  I  have  added  a  modern  prose 
version,  which  removes  all  difficulty  in  the  perusal.  I  should 
rather  say  I  have  added  the  version  for  the  purpose  of  retaining  the 
immortal  man's  own  words,  besides  being  able  to  show  perhaps  how 
strongly  every  word  of  a  great  poet  tells  in  the  most  modern  prose 
version,  provided  liis  ideas  are  not  absolutely  misrepresented.  At 
all  events,  the  reader  may  go  uninterruptedly,  if  he  pleases, 
through  the  version,  and  then  turn  to  the  original  for  the  finer 
traits,  and  for  a  music  equally  correct  and  beautiful. 

I  wish  I  could  have  given  more  than  one  comic  story  out  of 
Chaucer  ;  but  the  change  of  manners  renders  it  difficult  at  any 
time,  and  impossible  in  a  book  like  the  present.  The  subjects 
with  which  the  court  and  gentry  of  the  times  of  the  Henries  and 
Edwards  could  be  entertained,  are  sometimes  not  only  indecorous 
but  revolting.  It  is  a  thousand  pities  that  the  unbounded  sympa- 
thy of  the  poet  with  everything  that  interested  his  fellow-crea- 
tures did  not  know,  in  this  instance,  where  to  stop.  Yet  we  must 
be  cautious  how  we  take  upon  ourselves  to  blame  him.  Even 
Shakspeare  did  nftt  quite  escape  the  infection  of  indecency  in  a 


CHAUCER.  51 


much  later  and  highly  refined  age  ;  and  it  may  startle  us  to  sus- 
pect, that  what  is  readable  in  the  gravest  and  even  the  most  scru- 
pulous circles  in  our  own  day,  may  not  be  altogether  so  a  hundred 
years  hence.  Allusions  and  phrases  which  are  thought  harmless 
now,  and  that  from  habit  really  are  so,  may  then  appear  in  as 
different  a  light  as  those  which  we  are  astonished  to  think  our 
ancestoi'.s  could  endure.  Nay,  opinions  and  daily  practices  exist, 
and  are  treated  witli  respect,  which  may  be  regarded  by  our  pos- 
terity as  the  grossest  and  cruellest  barbarisms.  We  may,  there- 
fore, cease  to  wonder  at  the  apparently  unaccountable  spectacle 
presented  by  such  writers  as  Chaucer,  who  combine  a  license 
the  most  indelicate  with  the  utmost  refinements  of  thought  and 
feeling. 

When  Chaucer  is  free  from  this  taint  of  his  age,  his  humor  is 
of  a  description  the  most  thoroughly  delightful ;  for  it  is  at  once 
entertaining,  profound,  and  good-natured.  If  this  last  quality  be 
thought  a  drawback  by  some,  as  wanting  the  relish  of  personality, 
they  may  supply  even  that  (as  some  have  supplied  it),  by  suppos- 
ing that  he  drew  his  charat^ters  from  individuals,  and  that  the 
individuals  were  very  uncomfortable  accordingly.  I  confess  I 
see  no  ground  for  the  supposition  beyond  what  the  nature  of  the 
case  demands.  Classes  must  of  course  be  drawn,  more  or  less, 
from  the  individuals  composing  them  ;  but  the  unprofessional 
particulars  added  by  Chaucer  to  his  characters  (such  as  the  Mer- 
chant's  uneasy  marriage,  and  the  Franklin's  prodigal  son),  are 
only  such  as  render  the  portraits  more  true,  by  including  them 
in  the  general  category  of  human  kind.  The  gangrene  which 
the  Cook  had  on  his  shin,  and  which  has  been  considered  as  a 
remarkable  instance  of  the  gratuitous,  is,  on  the  contrary  (besides 
its  masterly  intimation  of  the  perils  of  luxury  in  general),  pain- 
fully in  character  with  a  man  accustomed  to  breathe  an  unhealthy 
atmosphere,  and  to  be  encouraging  bad  humors  with  tasting 
sauces  and  syrups.     Besides,  the  Cook  turns  out  to  be  a  drunkard. 

Chaucer's  comic  genius  is  so  perfect,  that  it  may  be  said  to 
include  prophetic  intimations  of  all  that  followed  it.  The  liberal- 
thinking  joviality  of  Rabelais  is  there  ;  the  portraiture  of  Cer- 
vantes, moral  and  external  ;  the  poetry  of  Shakspeare;  the  learn- 
ing of  Ben  Jonson  ;  the   manners  of  the  wits  of  Charles  the 


52  CHAUCER. 


Second  ;  the  honhomie  of  Sterne  ;  and  the  insidiousness,  without 
the  malice,  of  Voltaire.  One  of  its  characteristics  is  a  certain 
tranquil  detection  of  particulars,  expressive  of  generals  ;  as  in 
the  instance  just  mentioned  of  the  secret  infirmity  of  the  Cook. 
Thus  the  Prioress  speaks  French ;  but  it  is  "  after  the  school  of 
Stratford  at  Bow."  Her  education  was  altogether  more  showy 
than  substantial.  The  lawyer  was  the  busiest  man  in  the  world, 
and  yet  he  "  seemed  busier  than  he  was."  He  made  something 
out  of  nothing,  even  in  appearances. 

Another  characteristic  is  his  fondness  for  seeing  the  spiritual 
in  the  material  ;  the  mind  in  the  man's  aspect.  He  is  as  studious 
of  physiognomy  as  Lavater,  and  far  truer.  Observe,  too,  the 
poetry  that  accompanies  it, — the  imaginative  sympathy  in  the 
matter  of  fact.  His  Yeoman,  who  is  a  forester,  has  a  head 
"like  a  nut."  His  Miller  is  as  brisk  and  healthy  as  the  air  of 
the  hill  on  which  he  lives,  and  as  hardy  and  as  coarse-grained  as 
his  conscience.  We  know,  as  well  as  if  we  had  ridden  with 
them,  his  oily-faced  Monk  ;  his  lisping  Friar  (who  was  to  make 
confession  easy  to  the  ladies) ;  his  carbuncled  Summoner  or 
Church-BailifF,  the  grossest  form  of  ecclesiastical  sensuality  ;  and 
his  irritable  money-getting  Reve  or  Steward,  with  his  cropped 
head  and  calf-less  legs,  who  shaves  his  beard  as  closely  as  he 
reckons  with  his  master's  tenants. 

The  third  great  quality  of  Chaucer's  humor  is  its  fair  play , — 
the  truth  and  humanity  which  induces  him  to  see  justice  done  to 
good  and  bad,  to  the  circumstances  which  make  men  what  they 
are,  and  the  mixture  of  right  and  wrong,  of  wisdom  and  of  folly, 
which  they  consequently  exhibit.  His  worst  characters  have 
some  little  saving  grace  of  good-nature,  or  at  least  of  joviality 
and  candor.  Even  the  Pardoner,  however  impudently,  acknow- 
ledges himself  to  be  a  "  vicious  man."  His  best  people,  with 
one  exception,  betray  some  infirmity.  The  good  Clerk  of  Oxford, 
for  all  his  simplicity  and  singleness  of  heart,  has  not  escaped  the 
pedantry  and  pretension  of  the  college.  The  Good  Parson  seems 
without  a  blemish,  even  in  his  wisdom ;  yet  when  it  comes  to  his 
turn  to  relate  a  story,  he  announces  it  as  a  "  little"  tale,  and 
then  tells  the  longest  and  most  prosing  in  the  book, — a  whole  ser- 
monizing volume.     This,  however,  might  be  an  expression  of 


CHAUCER.  53 


modesty  ;  since  Chaucer  uses  the  same  epithet  for  a  similar  story 
of  his  own  telling.  But  the  Good  Parson  also  ti'eats  poetry  and 
fiction  with  contempt.  His  understanding  is  narrower  than  his 
motives.  The  only  character  in  Chaucer  which  seems  faultless, 
is  that  of  the  Knight ;  and  he  is  a  man  who  has  been  all  over  the 
world,  and  bought  experience  with  hard  blows.  The  poet  does 
not  spare  his  own  person.  He  describes  himself  as  a  fat,  heavy 
man,  with  an  "  elvish"  (wildish  ?)  countenance,  shy,  and  always 
"  staring  on  the  ground."  Perhaps  he  paid  for  his  genius  and 
his  knowledge  with  the  consequences  of  habits  too  sedentary,  and 
a  vein,  in  his  otherwise  cheerful  wisdom,  of  hypochondriacal 
wonder.  He  also  puts  in  his  own  mouth  a  fairy-tale  of  chivalry, 
which  the  Host  interrupts  with  contempt,  as  a  tiresome  common- 
place. I  take  it  to  have  been  a  production  of  the  modest  poet's 
when  he  was  young ;  for  in  the  midst  of  what  looks  like  inten- 
tional burlesque,  are  expressions  of  considerable  force  and  beauty. 

This  self-knowledge  is  a  part  of  Chaucer's  greatness  ;  and 
these  modest  proofs  of  it  distinguish  him  from  every  other  poet  in 
the  language.  Shakspeare  may  have  had  as  much,  or  more.  It 
is  difficult  to  suppose  otherwise.  And  yet  there  is  no  knowing 
what  qualities,  less  desirable,  might  have  hindered  even  his 
mighty  insight  into  his  fellow-creatures  from  choosing  to  look  so 
closely  into  himself  His  sonnets  are  not  without  intimations  of 
personal  and  other  defects ;  but  they  contain  no  such  candid 
talking  as  Chaucer. 

The  father  of  English  poetry  was  essentially  a  modest  man. 
He  sits  quietly  in  a  corner,  looking  down  for  the  most  part,  and 
meditating ;  at  other  times  eyeing  everything  that  passes,  and 
sympathizing  with  everything  ; — chuckling  heartily  at  a  jest, 
feeling  his  eyes  fill  with  tears  at  sorrow,  reverencing  virtue,  and 
not  out  of  charity  witli  vice.  When  he  ventures  to  tell  a  story 
himself,  it  is  as  much  under  correction  of  the  Host  as  the  hum- 
blest man  in  the  company  ;  and  it  is  no  sooner  objected  to,  than 
he  drops  it  for  one  of  a  different  description. 

I  have  retained  the  grave  character  of  the  Knight  in  the  selec- 
tion, because  he  is  leader  of  the  cavalcade. 

The  syllables  that  are  to  be  retained  in  reading  the  verses  are 
marked  with  the  brief  accent  '"' .     The  terminatinsr  vowels  thus 


54  CHAUCER. 


distinguished  were  certainly  pronounced  during  one  period  of  our 
language,  otherwise  they  would  not  have  been  written ;  though, 
by  degrees,  the  comparative  faintness  of  their  utterance,  and  dis- 
use of  them  in  some  instances,  enabled  writers  to  use  them  as 
they  pleased  ;  just  as  poets  in  our  own  day  retain  or  not,  as  it 
suits  them,  the  e's  in  the  final  syllable  of  participles  and  past 
tenses  ; — such  as  ielov'd,  beloved  ;  swerv'd,  swerved,  &c.  The 
French  in  their  verses  use  their  terminating  vowels  at  this  mo- 
ment precisely  as  Chaucer  did  ;  though  they  drop  them  in  conver- 
sation. I  have  no  living  Frenchman  at  hand  to  quote,  but  he 
writes  in  this  respect  as  Boileau  did  : — 

EUe  dit ;  et  du  vent  de  sa  bouche  profane 
Lui  souffle  avec  ces  mots  I'ardeur  de  la  chicane ; 
Le  Prelat  se  reveille ;  et,  plein  d'emotion, 
Lui  donne  toutefois  la  benediction. 

(Discord  waking  the  Dean  in  the  Lutrin.) 


CHARACTERS   OF  PILGRIMS. 

Whanne  that  April  with  his  shoures  sole 
The  droughte  of  Mar  die  hath  perced  to  the  rote. 
And  bathed  every  veine  in  swiche  licbur. 
Of  which  e  vertiie  engendred  is  the  flam-  ;i 
Whan  Zephirus  eke  with  his  sote  brethe 
Enspired  hath  in  every  holt  and  hethe 
The  tendre  croppes,  and  the  yonge  sonne 
Hath  in  the  Ram  his  halfe  cours  yronne. 
And  smale  foules  maken  melodic. 
That  slepen  alle  night  with  open  eye, 
So  priketh  hem  nature  in  her  corages, 
Than  longen  folk  to  gon  on  pilgrimages. 
And  palmeres  for  to  seken  strange  strondes 
To  serve  halwes  couthe  in  sundry  londes ; 


When  April  with  his  sweet  showers  has  pierced  the  drought  of  March 
to  the  root,  and  bathed  every  vein  in  the  balm  that  produces  flowers  ;  when 
Zephyr  too,  with  his  sweet  breath,  has  animated  the  tender  green  buds  in 
the  woods  and  on  the  heaths  ;  and  the  young  sun  has  run  half  his  course  in 
the  Ram ;  and  the  little  winged  creatures,  that  sleep  all  night  with  their 
eyes  open,  begin  their  music  (so  irresistible  in  their  hearts  is  Nature),  then 
do  people  long  to  go  on  pilgrimages,  and  palmers  to  seek  foreign  shores  in 


CHAUCER.  55 


And  speciallj'  from  every  shire's  ende 

Of  Englelond  to  Caiiterbur\'  they  vvende, 

The  holy  blissful  martyr  for  to  seke.a 

That  hem  hath  holpen  whan  that  they  were  seke. 

Befelle  that  in  that  seson  on  a  day, 
In  Southwerk  at  the  Tabard^  as  I  lay, 
Redy  to  wenden  on  my  pilgrimage 
To  Canterbury  with  devoute  courage. 
At  night  was  come  into  that  hostelrie 
Wei  nine-and-twenty  in  a  compagnie         • 
Of  sondry  folk,  by  aventure   yfalle 
In  felawship,  and  pilgrimes  were  they  alle 
That  toward  Canterbury  wolden  ride. 
The  chambres  and  the  stables  weren  wide, 
And  wel  we  weren  esed  atte  baste. 

And  ^5^ortly,  when  the  sonne  was  gou  to  reste. 
So  hadde  I  spoken  with  hem  everich  on. 
That  I  was  of  hir  felawship  anon, 
And  made  forword  erly  for  to  rise. 
To  take  oure  way  ther,  as  I  you  devise. 

But  natheles  while  I  have  time  and  space. 
Or  that  I  forther  in  this  tale  pace. 
Me  thinketh  it  accordant  to  reson 
To  tellen  you  alle  the  condition 
Of  eche  of  hem,  so  as  it  semed  me. 
And  whiche  they  weren,  and  of  what  degre ; 
And  eke  in  what  araie  that  they  were  inne ; 
And  at  a  knight  tlian  wol  1  firste  beginne. 


order  to  worship  at  famous  shrines;  and,  above  all,  people  crowd  from 
every  shire's  end  in  England  to  that  of  the  holy  martyr  at  Canterbury, 
who  has  helped  them  when  they  were  sick. 

Now,  at  this  season,  it  happened  one  day,  while  I  was  at  the  Tabard  in 
Southwark,  ready  to  set  forth  on  my  own  devout  journey  to  Canterbur}', 
that  there  came  into  the  inn  a  matter  of  nine-and-twenty  people,  who  had 
joined  company,  and  were  all  bound  on  the  same  visit.  There  was  plenty 
of  room  in  the  place  both  for  man  and  horse,  and  we  were  all  very  com- 
fortable. 

By  sunset  I  had  spoken  with  every  one  of  these  persons,  and  become  one 
of  the  party  :  so  I  agreed  to  be  up  early  in  the  morning,  in  order  to  lose  no 
time. 

While  thus  waiting  between  sunset  and  sunrise,  it  is  but  reason,  methinks, 
that  the  reader  should  be  told  what  sort  of  people  my  fellow-travellers  were ; 
of  what  rank  in  life,  what  characters,  and  even  how  they  were  dressed. 
And  I  will  begin  first  with  a  knight. 


56  CHAUCER. 


A  Knight  ther  was,  and  that  a  worthy  man, 
That  fro  the  time  that  he  firsts  began 
Toriden  out,  he  loved  chivalrie, 
Trouthe  and  honour,  fredom  and  courtesie, 
Ful  worthy  was  he  in  his  lordes  werre. 
And  thereto  hadde  he  ridden,  no  man  ferre, 
As  well  in  Cristendom  as  in  Hethenesse, 
And  ever  honored  for  his  worthinesse. 

At  Alisandre  he  was  whan  it  was  wonne, 
Ful  often  time  he  hadde  the  bord  begonne 
Aboven  alle  nations  in  Pruce  : 
In  Lettowe  hadde  he  reysed,  and  in  Ruce, 
No  Cristen  man  so  ofte  of  his  degre  : 
In  Gernade  at  the  siege  eke  hadde  he  be 
Of  Algesir,  and  ridden  in  Belmarie  : 
At  Leyes  was  he,  and  at  Satalie, 
Whan  they  were  wonne  ;  and  in  the  Grete  See 
At  many  a  noble  armee  had  he  be. 
At  mortal  batailles  hadde  he  ben  fiftene, 
And  foughten  for  our  faith  at  Tramaissene 
In  listes  thries,  and  ay  slain  his  fo. 

This  ilke  worthy  Knight  hadde  ben  also 
Some  time  with  the  Lord  of  Palatie 
Agen  another  hethen  in  Turkie, 
And  evermore  he  hadde  a  sovereigne  pris. 
And  though  that  he  was  worthy,  he  was  wise. 
And  of  his  poj't  as  meke  as  is  a  mayde. 
He  never  yet  no  vilanie  ne  sayde 
In  alle  his  lif  unto  no  manere  wight: 
He  was  a  veray  parjit  gentil  knight  ! 


The  Kptight  was  a  man  of  great  worth,  who  from  the  first  moment  of  his 
setting  out  on  his  adventures,  loved  his  profession  with  all  his  heart,  and  was 
an  honor  to  it.  He  was  full  of  truth,  liberalityj  and  courtesy.  He  was  at 
Alexandria  when  it  was  taken.  He  had  many  times  been  placed  at  the 
head  of  the  table  in  Prussia;  had  commanded  oftener  in  Russia  and 
Lithuania  than  any  other  man  of  his  standing;  had  been  at  the  siege  of 
Algeziras  in  Granada  ;  had  served  in  Bellemarin  ;  had  assisted  at  the  taking 
of  Layas  and  Satalie ;  and  been  with  many  a  noble  armament  in  the  Greek 
Sea.  He  had  fought  in  fifteen  mortal  battles,  and  slain  his  combatant  thrice 
in  the  lists  at  Thrasimene  for  the  Christian  faith.  He  had  also  been  against 
the  heathens  in  Turkey,  with  the  lord  of  Palathia.  Wherever  he  went, 
his  services  were  rated  at  the  highest  price  ;  yet  his  discretion  was  equal  to 
his  worth,  and  he  was  as  meek  in  his  carriage  as  a  maiden.  He  never 
spoke  a  discourteous  word  in  his  life  to  a  human  being.  He  was  a  very 
perfect  gentle  Knight 


CHAUCER.  57 


But  for  to  tellen  j'ou  of  his  araie  ; 
His  hors  was  good,  but  he  ne  was  not  gaie. 
Of  fustian  he  wered  a  gipon 
All?  besmotred  with  his  habergeon. 
For  he  was  late  y  come  fro  his  viage, 
And  wente  for  to  don  his  pilgrimage. 

With  him  ther  was  his  sone,  ayonge  Squikr, 
A  lover  and  a  lusty  bacheler, 
With  lockes  crull  as  they  were  laide  in  presse  ,•* 
Of  twenty  yere  of  age  he  was,  I  gesse. 
Of  his  stature  he  was  of  even  lengthe, 
And  wonderly  deliver,  and  grete  of  strengthe , 
And  he  had  be  sometime  in  chevachie 
In  Flaunders,  in  Artois,  and  in  Picardie, 
And  borne  him  wel,  as  of  so  litel  space. 
In  hope  to  stonden  in  his  ladies  grace. 

Embrovded  ivas  he,  as  it  were  a  mede 
All  full  of  freshe  flour  es  white  and  rede: 
Singing  he  was,  orfloyting  all  the  day  : 
He  was  as  freshe  as  is  the  moneth  of  May : 
Short  was  his  goune,  with  sieves  long  and  wide  ; 
Wel  coude  he  sitte  on  hors,  and  fayre  ride ; 
He  coude  songes  make,  and  wel  endite. 
Juste  and  eke  dance,  and  wel  pourtraie  and  write : 
So  bote  he  loved,  that  by  nightertale 
He  slept  no  more  than  doth  the  nightingale  : 
Curteis  he  was,  lowly  and  servisable. 
And  carf  before  his  fader  at  the  table  ° 

As  to  his  equipments,  he  had  a  good  horse,  but  he  made  no  show.  His 
doublet  was  of  fustian  ;  and  it  was  all  smutted  with  his  armor  ;  for  he  was 
just  come  from  abroad,  and  was  bound  on  his  pilgrimage. 

With  him  there  was  his  son,  a  young  Squire,  who  was  a  fine  fellow,  and 
in  love.  His  locks  were  in  as  good  curl  as  if  they  had  been  put  in  papers. 
I  should  take  his  age  to  have  been  twenty.  He  was  well  made,  and  of  won- 
derful strength  and  activity.  He  had  been  out  with  the  troopers  in  Flanders, 
Artois,  and  Picardy  ;  and  got  up  no  little  repute  in  a  short  space  of  time,  in 
hope  to  cut  a  figure  in  the  eyes  .of  his  mistress.  He  was  like  a  meadow  to 
look  at,  he  was  so  embroidered  with  flowers.  He  used  to  be  singing  or 
playing  the  flute  from  morning  to  night.  He  was  as  fresh  as  the  month  of 
May.  He  had  a  short  vest  on,  with  big  sleeves ;  and  well  could  he  sit  his 
horse,  and  put  it  to  its  paces.  He  could  compose  a  song  too,  and  tell  a 
good  story,  joust  and  dance,  and  take  portraits,  and  write.  He  was  such  a 
serenader,  that  he  slept  no  more  than  the  nightingale.  But  he  was 
courteous  withal,  deferential  and  attentive  ;  and  was  the  carver  at  his  father's 

table. 

4* 


5S  CHAUCER. 


A  Yeman  hadde  he,  and  servantes  no  mo 
At  that  time,  for  him  luste  to  ride  so, 
And  he  was  cladde  in  cote  and  hode  of  grene ; 
A  shefe  of  peacock  arwes,  bright  and  kene, 
Under  his  belt  he  bare  full  thriftily  : 
Wei  coude  he  dresse  his  takel  yemanly : 
His  arwes  drouped  not  with  fetheres  lowe, 
And  in  his  hond  he  bare  a  mighty  bowe. 

A  not-hed  had  he,  with  a  broune  visage  : 
Of  wood-craft  coude  he  wel  alle  the  usage ; 
Upon  his  arme  he  bare  a  gaie  bracer, 
And  by  his  side  a  sword  and  a  bokeler. 
And  on  that  other  side  a  gaie  daggere, 
Harneised  wel,  and  sharp  as  point  of  spere  : 
A  Cristofre  on  his  brest  of  silver  shene. 
An  home  he  bare,  the  bandrik  was  of  grene  ; 
A  forster  was  he  sothely,  as  I  gesse. 

Ther  was  also  a  Nonne,  a  Prioresse, 
That  of  Mr  smiling  wasful  simple  and  coy ; 
Hire  gretest  othe  n'as  but  by  Seint  Eloy, 
And  she  was  cleped  Madame  Eglentine ; 
Ful  wel  she  sange  the  service  divine, 
Enttmed  in  hire  nose  ful  swetely  ; 
And  Frenche  she  spake  ful  fayre  and  fctisly, 
After  the  scale  of  Stratford  atte  Bowe, 
For  French  of  Paris  was  to  hire  unknowe. 
At  mete  was  she  wel  ytaughte  withalle  ; 
She  lette  no  morsel  from  hire  lippes  falle, 


It  pleased  the  Knight  to  have  no  servant  with  him  on  this  occasion  but 
a  Yeoman.  He  was  dressed  in  a  green  coat  and  hood,  and  had  a  sheaf 
stuck  in  his  belt  full  of  arrows  with  peacock  feathers.  Bright  and  keen 
were  they.  He  had  a  right  yeomanly  hand  at  such  tackle.  His  arrows 
never  looked  as  if  they  were  moulting.  And  in  his  hand  he  carried  a 
mighty  bow.  His  head  was  shaped  like  a  nut,  and  his  face  sunburnt.  He 
knew  all  about  woods.  His  arm  was  defended  by  a  showy  bracer  ;  he  had 
a  sword  and  buckler  on  one  side ;  a  fine  dagger  on  the  other,  in  capital  con- 
dition ;  a  bright  silver  image  of  St.  Christopher  on  his  breast ;  and  he  wore 
a  horn  by  a  green  belt.     A  proper  forester  was  he,  you  might  be  certain. 

There  was  also  a  nun  among  us,  a  Prioress,  who  was  very  careful  how 
she  smiled,  and  did  it  with  wonderful  simplicity.  Her  strongest  affirma- 
tion was  by  St.  Elias.  They  called  her  Madame  Eglantine.  She  sang 
divine  service  in  the  sweetest  of  nasal  tones ;  and  spoke  French  to  a  nicety, 
after  the  fashion  of  the  school  of  Stratford-at-Bow ;  for  she  didn't  know 
Paris  French.     She  was  so  well  brought  up,  that  she  never  let  anything 


CHAUCER.  59 


Ne  wette  hire  fingres  in  hire  sauce  depe  ; 

Wei  coude  she  carie  a  morsel,  and  wel  kepe, 

Thatte  no  drope  ne  fell  upon  hire  brest. 

In  curtesie  was  sette  full  moche  hire  lest : 

Hire  over  lippS  wiped  she  so  clene, 

That  in  hire  cuppe  was  no  ferthing  sene 

Of  grese  when  she  dronken  hadde  hire  draught ; 

Full  semely  after  hire  mete  she  raught : 

And  sikerly  she  was  of  grete  disport, 

And  ful  pleasant  and  amiable  of  port. 

And peintd  hire  to  contrefeten  chere 

Of  court,  and  ben  estatelich  of  manere. 

And  to  ben  holden  digne  of  reverence. 

But  for  to  speken  of  hire  conscience. 
She  was  so  charitable  and  so  pitous 
She  wolde  wepe  if  that  she  saw  a  mous 
Caughtc  in  a  trappe,  if  it  were  ded,  or  bledde. 
Of  smale  houndes  hadde  she,  that  she  fedde 
With  roasted  flesh,  and  milk,  and  wastel  brede. 
But  sore  wept  she,  if  on  of  hem  were  dede. 
Or  if  men  smote  it  with  a  yerde  smert ; 
And  all  was  conscience  and  tendre  herte.'' 

Ful  semely  hire  wimple  ypinched  was, 
Hire  nose  tretis,  hire  eyen  grey  as  glas ; 
Hire  mouth  full  smale  and  thereto  soft  and  red; 
But  sikerly  she  had  a  fayre  forehed  : 
It  was  almost  a  spanne  brode,  I  trowe. 
For  hardily  she  was  not  undergrowe. 


slip  out  of  her  mouth  at  table,  nor  wetted  her  fingers  with  the  sauce. 
Admirably  could  she  achieve  the  morsel.  Not  a  particle  of  it  fell  on  her 
bosom.  She  delighted  to  show  her  good  breeding.  She  was  particularly 
careful  in  wiping  her  lips  before  she  drank;  and  took  up  her  meat  in  a 
style  the  most  decorous.  To  say  the  truth,  she  was  an  amiable  creature, 
full  of  goodwill  to  everybody  ;  and  it  cost  her  a  great  deal  of  trouble  to  give 
herself  the  airs  of  her  condition,  and  obtain  people's  reverence. 

As  to  her  conscience,  she  was  so  full  of  tenderness  and  charity,  that  she 
would  weep  if  she  saw  a  mouse  hurt  in  a  trap.  She  kept  delicate  little 
hounds,  which  she  fed  with  milk,  roast  meat,  and  fancy-bread ;  and 
sorely  did  she  lament  when  any  one  of  them  died,  or  if  anybody  struck  it. 
She  was  all  conscience  and  tender  heart. 

Her  neckerchief  was  plaited  in  the  nicest  manner.  She  had  a  delicate 
straight  nose,  eyes  of  a  clear  grey,  a  small,  soft,  red  mouth,  and  a  hand- 
some forehead.  I  think  it  must  have  been  a  span  broad.  In  truth  she  was 
no  way  stinted  in  her  growth. 


80  CHAUCER. 


Ful  fetise  was  hire  cloke,  as  I  was  ware, 
Of  smale  corall  about  hire  arm  she  bare 
A  pair  of  bedes  gauded  all  with  grene, 
And  thereon  heng  a  broche  of  gold  ful  shene 
On  whiche  was  first  ywritten  a  crouned  A, 
And  after  Amor  vincit  omma. 

Another  Noivne  also  with  hire  hadde  she 
That  was  hire  chapelleine,  and  Preestes  thre." 

A  Monk  ther  was,  a  fayre  for  the  maistrie. 
An  out-rider  that  loved  venerie  ;  (hunting) 
A  manly  man  to  ben  an  abbot  able  ; 
Ful  many  a  deinte  hors  hadde  he  in  stable. 
And  ivhan  he  rode,  men  mighte  his  bridel  here 
Gingeling  in  a  whistling  wind,  as  clere, 
And  eke  as  loude  as  doth  the  chapell  belle 
Ther  as  this  lord  was  keper  of  the  celle. 

The  reule  of  Seint  Maure  and  of  Seint  Beneit, 
Because  that  it  was  olde  and  somdele  streit, 
This  ilke  monk  lette  olde  thinges  pace, 
And  helde  after  the  newe  world  the  trace. 
He  yave  not  of  the  text  a  pulled  hen 
Thatsaith  that  hunters  ben  not  holy  men, 
Ne  that  a  monk  whan  he  is  rekkeles 
Is  like  to  a  fish  that  is  waterles  ; 
This  is  to  say,  a  monk  out  of  his  cloistre  ; 
This  ilke  text  held  he  not  worth  an  oistre  ; 
And  I  say  his  opinion  was  good. 
What  shulde  he  studie  and  make  himselven  wood. 

The  cloak  she  wore  was  extremely  well  cut.  She  had  a  chaplet  of 
coral  beads  about  her  arm,  ornamented  with  green ;  and  to  the  chaplet  was 
appended  a  fine  gold  trinket  made  into  a  crowned  letter  A,  with  the  device. 
Amor  vincit  omnia. 

She  had  a  Nun  with  her,  who  was  her  chaplain  ;  and  three  Priests. 

A  Monk  may  come  next,  a  masterly  specimen  of  his  order  ;  a  lover  of 
hunting,  always  foremost  of  the  horsemen ;  a  manly  man,  fit  to  be  an 
abbot.  Many  a  dainty  horse  had  he  in  his  stable ;  and  when  he  was  on  the 
road,  men  might  hear  his  bridle  jingling  in  the  wind  as  loud  and  clear  as 
the  chapel  bell. 

He  had  no  great  regard,  this  Monk,  for  the  rules  of  Saint  Maur  and 
Saint  Benedict.  He  thought  them  old  and  too  particular ;  and  he  was  for 
letting  old  things  go  their  ways,  and  taking  after  the  new.  The  notion 
that  sportsmen  are  no  saints,  he  valued  no  more  than  a  plucked  hen  ;  and 
he  set  as  little  store  by  the  saying,  that  a  monk  out  of  his  cell  is  like  a 
fish  out  of  water.  He  swallowed  it  as  easily  as  he  would  an  oyster.  And 
in  my  opinion  he  was  right.     Why  should   a  man  study,  and   turn  his 


CHAUCER.  6\ 


Upon  a  book  in  cloistre  alway  to  pore, 
Or  swinken  with  his  hondes,  and  laboure, 
As  Austin  bit  ?  how  shall  the  world  be  served  ? 
Let  Austin  have  his  sivink  to  him  reserved: 
Therefore  he  was  a  prickasoure  a  right. 
Greihoundes  he  hadde  as  swift  as  foul  of  flight. 
Of  pricking  and  of  hunting  for  the  hare 
Was  all  his  lust ;  for  no  cost  wolde  he  spare. 

/  saw  his  sieves  purfiled  at  the  bond 
With  gris,  and  that  the  finest  of  the  lond ; 
And  for  to  fasten  his  hood  under  his  chinne 
He  hadde  of  gold  ywrought  a  curious  pinne  ; 
A  love-knotte  in  the  greter  ende  ther  was  : 
His  hed  was  balled,  and  shone  as  any  glas  ; 
And  eke  his  face,  as  it  hadde  ben  anoint  ; 
He  was  a  lord  ful  fat,  and  in  good  point : 
His  eyen  stepe,  and  rolling  in  his  hed. 
That  stemed  as  afor/iets  of  a  led  ; 
His  bootes  souple,  his  hors  in  gret  estat ; 
JVott'  certainly  he  was  a  fayre  prelat  : 
He  was  not  pale  as  a  forpined  gost ; 
A  fat  swan  loved  he  best  of  any  rost  : 
His  palfrey  was  as  broune  as  is  a  bery. 

A  Fhere  ther  was,  a  wanton  and  amery, 
A  limitour,  a  ful  solempne  man  .•^'^ 
In  all  the  ordres  foure  is  non  that  can 


brains,  and  be  always  poring  over  a  book,  mewed  up  in  a  cloister,  and 
labor  and  toil  with  his  hands,  because  Austin  bade  him  .'  How  is  the  world 
to  be  served  at  that  rate  ?  Let  Austin  be  accommodated  with  as  much 
labor  as  he  pleases.  Our  monk  preferred  good  riding.  He  had  a  pack  of 
greyhounds  as  swift  as  birds,  and  cared  for  nothing  but  horses  and  the 
chase.     It  was  no  matter  what  they  cost  him. 

I  beheld  with  my  own  eyes  his  sleeves  bordered  with  fur,  and  that  too 
the  finest  in  the  land.  To  fasten  his  hood  under  the  chin  he  had  a  gold 
pin,  curiously  wrought  into  a  love-knot.  His  head  was  bald,  and  shone  as 
if  it  had  been  glazed.  So  did  his  face,  as  if  it  had  been  anointed.  He  was 
a  glorious  jolly  personage.  There  was  not  a  point  about  him  but  was  perfect. 
His  eyes  were  sunk  in  fat,  and  his  head  smoked  like  a  furnace.  His  boots 
were  supple,  his  horse  in  the  highest  condition :  in  short,  he  was  the 
model  of  a  dignified  clergyman.  He  was  no  ghost  of  a  man,  pale  and 
wasted  away.  The  dish  he  loved  best  was  a  fat  swan.  His  palfrey  was 
as  brown  as  a  berry. 

A  Friar  was  there  too,  a  very  facetious  fellow ;  wonderfully  solemn 
withal.     He  was  one  of  the  friars  that  are  licensed  to  beg.     In  all   the 


62  CHAUCER. 


So  moche  of  daliance  and  fayre  langage  : 
He  hadde  ymade  fid  many  a  7nariage 
Of  yonge  wimmen  at  his  owen  cost  : 
Until  his  ordre  he  was  a  noble  post. 
Ful  wel  beloved  and  familiar  was  he 
With  frankeleins  over  all  in  his  contree. 
And  eke  with  worthy  wimmen  of  the  toun, 
For  he  had  power  of  confession, 
As  saide  himselfe,  more  than  a  curat ; 
For  of  his  ordre  he  was  a  licentiat. 
Ful  swetely  heard  he  confession, 
And  plesant  was  his  absolution. 
He  was  an  esy  man  to  give  penance 
Ther  as  he  wiste  to  han  a  good  pitance. 
For  unto  a  poure  ordre  for  to  give 
Is  signe  that  a  man  is  wel  yshrive  ; 
For  if  he  gave  he  dorste  make  avdnt 
He  wiste  that  a  man  was  repentant  ; 
For  many  a  man  so  hard  is  of  his  herte. 
He  may  not  wepe  although  him  sore  smerte  ; 
Therefore  in  stede  of  weping  and praieres 
Men  mote  give  silver  to  the  poure  freres. 
His  tippet  was  ay  farsed  ful  of  knives 
And  pinnes  for  to  given  fayre  wives  ; 
And  certainly  he  hadde  a  mery  note  ; 
Wel  coude  he  singe  and  plaien  on  a  rote. 


Four  Orders  he  had  not  his  match  for  an  affectionate  approach  and  wheed- 
ling speeches.  He  had  read  the  marriage-service  to  heaps  of  young 
women  for  nothing.  He  was  an  amazing  support  to  his  order;  quite  a 
pillar.  There  was  not  a  rich  farmer  in  his  county  with  whom  he  was  not 
a  favorite.  And  as  much  might  be  said  of  the  good  women  in  the  towns  : 
for  (as  he  used  to  observe)  he  had  license  to  hear  confession  wherever  he 
pleased,  and  was  not  confined  to  one  spot  like  a  poor  curate.  Sweet  was 
his  mode  of  hearing  confession,  and  pleasant  was  his  absolution.  He  was 
an  easy  man  at  ordering  penance,  where  he  expected  a  just  return ;  for  he 
was  of  opinion,  that  to  give  handsomely  to  the  poor  friars  was  a  sign  that 
a  man  had  confessed  to  some  purpose.  He  would  grow  quite  exalted  on 
this  point,  and  swear  that  such  a  man  must  be  a  true  penitent:  for  (argued 
he)  weeping  proves  nothing ;  a  man  may  be  very  sorry,  yet  not  able  to 
weep  ;  therefore  the  way  to  make  his  repentance  manifest  is  neither  to 
weep  nor  pray,  but  to  come  down  with  his  money  to  the  poor  friars. 

His  tippet  was  always  stuffed  full  of  knives  and  pins,  to  give  to  pretty 
women.     It  is  astonishing  what  a  pleasant  tongue  he  had.     He  could  sing, 


CHAUCER.  63 


Of  yeddinges  he  bare  utterly  the  pris  ; 
His  nekke  was  white  as  the  flour-de-lis  ; 
Thereto  he  strong  was  as  a  champi'oun. 
And  knew  wel  the  tavernes  in  every  tonn, 
And  every  hosteler  and  gay  tapstere, 
Better  than  a  lazar  or  a  beggere  ; 
For  unto  swiche  a  worthy  man  as  he 
Accordeth  nought,  as  by  his  faculte 
To  haven  with  sike  lazars  acquaintance  : 
It  is  not  honest,  it  may  not  avarice, 
Jls  for  to  del  en  with  no  swiche  pour  ail  le. 
But  all  with  riche  and  sellers  ofvitaille. 

And  over  all,  ther  as  profit  shuld  arise, 
Curteis  he  was,  and  lowly  of  servise  : 
Ther  n'as  no  man  no  wher  so  vertuous  ; 
He  was  the  beste  begger  in  all  his  hous. 
And  gave  a  certaine  ferme  for  the  grant 
Non  of  his  bretheren  came  in  his  haunt : 
For  though  a  widewe  hadde  but  a  shoo, 
{So plesant  was  his  "  Ix  principio") 
Yet  wold  he  have  a  ferthing  or  he  went ; 
His  pourchas  w^as  wel  better  than  his  rent. 

A  Clerk  ther  was  of  Oxenford  also, 
That  unto  logike  hadde  long  ygo. 
As  lene  was  his  hors  as  is  a  rake, 
^nd  he  was  7iot  right  fat,  I  undertake. 
But  loked  holvve,  and  therto  soberly. 
Ful  thredbare  was  his  overest  courtepy. 


and  play  on  the  rote.  There  was  nobody  to  be  compared  with  him  for  a 
good  story. 

His  neck  was  as  white  as  a  lily ,  but  that  did  not  hinder  his  being  a 
very  champion  for  strength.  He  knew  every  tavern-keeper,  tapster,  and 
ostler  about  the  country,  better  than  he  did  any  beggar,  sick  or  well. 
Indeed,  it  is  not  proper  for  such  as  he  to  go  herding  with  sick  beggars.  It 
would  not  be  respectable  or  useful.  The  friar's  duty  lies  among  tlie  rich, 
and  with  people  who  keep  eating-houses. 

Where  any  profit  could  come  of  it,  who  could  humble  himself  as  he  did  .' 
who  show  so  much  activity  ?  He  was  the  best  beggar  of  his  house,  and 
rented  the  district  he  went  about  in,  so  that  none  of  his  brethren 
might  interfere.  If  a  widow  had  but  an  old  shoe,  he  would  get  a  farthing 
out  of  it  ere  he  left  her ;  so  pleasant  was  his  in  principio.  He  made  a 
great  deal  more  of  his  lease  than  he  paid  for  it. 

An  Oxford  Scholar  was  among  us,  who  had  long  passed  his  examin- 
ation. His  horse  was  as  lean  as  a  rake,  and  he  himself  was  not  much 
fatter.     He  had  hollow  cheeks,  a  grave  expression  of  countenance,  and  a 


64  CHAUCER. 


For  he  hadde  goten  him  yet  no  benefice 
Ne  was  nought  worldly  to  have  an  office  ; 
For  him  was  lever  han  at  his  beddes  hed 
Twenty  bokes,  clothed  in  blake  or  red. 
Of  Aristotle  and  his  philosophic 
Then  robes  riche,  orjidel  or  sautrie  : 
But  all  be  that  he  was  a  philosophre. 
Yet  hadde  he  but  litel  gold  in  cofre,^^ 
But  all  that  he  might  of  his  frendes  hente 
On  bokes  and  on  learning  he  it  spente, 
And  besily  gan  for  the  soules  praie 
Of  hem  that  yave  him  wherewith  to  scolaie, 
Of  studie  toke  he  moste  cure  and  hede ; 
Not  a  word  spake  he  more  than  was  nede, 
And  that  was  said  in  form  and  reverence. 
And  short  and  quike,  and  ful  of  high  sentence. 
Souning  in  moral  vertue  was  his  speche, 
And  gladly  wold  he  lerne  and  gladly  teche.^^ 
A  Sergeant  of  the  Lawe  ware  and  wise, 
That  often  hadde  yben  at  the  paruis, 
Ther  was  also,  ful  riche  of  excellence ; 
Discrete  he  was,  and  of  grete  reverence  ; 
He  semed  swiche,  his  wordes  were  so  wise  : 
For  his  science  and  for  his  high  renoun 
Of  fees  and  robes  had  he  many  on  : 
So  grete  a  pourchasour  was  no  wher  non : 
All  was  fee  simple  to  him  in  effect ; 
His  pourchasing  might  not  ben  in  suspect : 


coarse  threadbare  cloak ;  for  he  had  got  no  living  yet,  and  he  was  not  the 
man  to  push  for  one.  The  finest  clothes  and  the  merriest  playing  on  the 
fiddle  were  nothing  in  his  estimation  compared  with  a  score  of  old  books  at 
his  bed's  head,  of  Aristotle  and  his  philosophy,  bound  in  red  or  black.  His 
philosophy  was  no  philosopher's  stone.  All  the  money  that  friends  gave 
him,  he  laid  out  on  books  and  learning  ;  and  the  moment  he  received  it, 
he  would  begin  praying  for  their  souls.  Study,  study  was  what  he  cared 
for.  He  never  used  more  words  than  were  necessary,  and  they  were  all 
according  to  form  and  authority,  very  emphatical  and  sententious.  Every- 
thing which  he  uttered  tended  to  a  moral  purpose  ;  and  gladly  would  he 
learn;  and  gladly  teach. 

We  had  a  Sergeant-at-Law  with  us,  a  very  wary  and  knowing  gen- 
tleman Many  a  consultation  had  been  held  with  him.  You  might  know 
what  authority  he  had,  his  words  were  so  oracular.  His  knowledge  and 
fame  together  had  brought  him  a  prodigious  number  of  fees  and  fine  things. 
Everything  in  fact  turned  to  fee-simple  in  his  hands,  and  all  with  a  justice 


CHAUCER.  65 


JVb  wher  so  besy  a  man  as  he  ther  n'  as  ; 

Jind  yet  he  sewed  besier  than  he  was}^ 

In  termes  hadde  he  cas  and  domes  alle 

That  fro  the  time  of  King  Will,  weren  falle  ; 

Thereto  he  coude  endite  and  make  a  thing ; 

Ther  coude  no  wight  pinche  at  his  writing  ; 

And  every  statute  coude  he  plaine  by  rote. 

He  rode  but  homely  in  a  medlee  cote 

Girt  with  a  seint  of  silk  with  barres  smale.  ' 

A  Shipman  was  ther,  woned  fer  by  west ; 
For  ought  I  wote  he  was  of  Dertemouth  : 
He  rode  upon  a  rouncie,  as  ht  couthe. 
All  in  a  goune  of  falding  to  the  knee. 
A  dagger  hanging  by  a  las  hadde  hee 
About  his  nekke  under  his  arm  adoun  ; 
The  hate  summer  hadde  made  his  hewe  all  broun  , 
And  certainly  he  was  good  felaw  ; 
Ful  many  a  draught  of  win  he  hadde  draw 
From  Burdeux  ward  while  that  the  chapman  slepe 
Of  nice  conscience  toke  he  no  kepe. 
If  that  he  faught  and  hadde  the  higher  hand, 
By  water  he  sent  hem  home  to  every  land. 
But  of  his  craft  to  reken  wel  his  tides. 
His  stremes  and  his  strandes  him  besides. 
His  herberwe,  his  mone,  and  his  lodemanage, 
There  was  non  swiche  from  Hull  unto  Cartage. 


and  propriety  that  nobody  could  think  of  disputing.  There  wasn't  such  a 
busy  man  in  existence :  and  yet  he  seemed  busier  than  he  was.  He  knew 
every  case  and  judgment  that  had  been  recorded  since  the  time  of  King 
William  ;  and  could  draw  out  a  plea  with  such  perfection,  not  a  flaw  was 
to  be  found  in  it.  As  to  the  statutes,  he  knew  them  all  by  heart.  He  was 
dressed  plainly  enough  in  a  suit  of  mixed  colors,  with  a  silken  sash  all  over 
small  bars. 

There  was  a  Captain  of  a  Ship  there,  who  came  a  long  way  out  of  the 
West.  I  think  he  was  from  Dartmouth.  He  had  got  a  horse  upon  hire, 
which  he  rode  as  well  as  he  was  able.  He  wore  a  falding  that  reached  to 
his  knee,  with  a  dirk  hanging  under  his  arm  from  a  string  round  the  neck ; 
and  his  skin  was  all  tanned  with  the  sun.  A  jovial  companion  was  he. 
He  had  helped  himself  to  many  a  swig  of  wine  at  Bourdeaux,  while  the 
merchant  was  asleep.  Conscience  was  not  in  his  line.  If  he  got  the  bet- 
ter of  a  vessel  at  sea,  he  always  sent  the  men  home  by  water.  As  to  his 
seamanship  and  his  pilotage,  his  knowledge  of  rivers  and  coasts,  of  sun  and 
moon,  and  his  heavings  of  the  lead,  there  wasn't  such  another  from  Hull 
to  Carthage.     He  was  both  audacious  and  cautious.     With  many  a  tempes* 


66  CHAUCER. 


Hardy  he  was,  and  wise,  I  undertake  ; 
Wit/i  inany  a  tejnpest  hadde  his  herd  be  shake . 
He  knew  wel  alle  the  havens  as  they  were 
Fro  Gotland  to  the  Cape  de  Finistere, 
And  every  creke  in  Bretagne  and  in  Spaine  : 
His  barge  ycleped  was  the  Magdelaine." 


had  his  beard  been  shaken.  He  knew  the  soundings  of  every  harbor  from 
Gothland  to  Cape  Finisterre,  and  every  creek  in  Brittany  and  Spain.  His 
vessel  was  called  the  Magdalen. 

\  "  Whanjie  that  April,"  &c.— What  freshness  and  delicacy  in  this 
exordium  !  It  seems  as  if  the  sweet  rains  entered  the  ground, 
purely  to  reappear,  themselves  as  flowers. 

2  "  The  holy  blissful  martyr."— Thom&s  a  Becket — the  great  pan- 
tomimic shifter  from  a  favorite  into  a  saint. 

3  "  I/I  Soiithiverk  at  the  Tabard."— Readers  hardly  need  be  told, 
that  this  Tabard  inn  is  still  extant,  under  the  misnomer  of  the 
Talbot.  It  is  worthy  of  any  gentleman's  "  pilgrimage,"  from  the 
remotest  regions  of  May-Fair.  Tlie  Borough  is  one  of  the  most 
classical  spots  in  England.  It  has  Chaucer  at  one  end,  and 
Shakspeare  at  the  other  (in  the  Globe  Theatre)  ;  besides  Gower, 
and  Fletcher,  and  Massinger,  lying  in  the  churches. 

*  "  He  was  a  veray  parfit  gentil  knight." — And  a  very  perfect  line 
is  it  that  so  describes  him.  It  would  be  a  pity  it  did  not  conclude 
the  portrait,  but  for  the  good  sense  and  sobriety  of  what  follows, 
and  the  smutted  state  of  the  knight's  doublet,  caused  by  his  coat 
of  mail.  This  renders  the  conclusion  still  better,  by  showing  the 
crowning  point  of  his  character,  which  is  the  preference  of  sub- 
stance to  show,  and  action  before  the  glory  of  it.  He  is  a  man 
who  would  rather  conclude  with  being  a  perfect  knight  than  with 
being  called  one. 

6  "  With  lockts  crull  as  they  were  laide  in  presse."— And  perhaps  the 
sly  poet  meant  us  to  understand  that  they  were  ;  for  manliness 
in  youth  is  not  always  above  the  little  arts  of  foppery. 

•^  "  And  car/  before  his  fader  at  the  fable." — A  custom  of  the  time, 
and  a  far  more  civilized  one  than  that  of  assicrning  the  office  to 
old  gentlemen  and  delicate  ladies. 

7  "  And  all  was  coiiscience  and  tendre  herte." — A  lovely  verse. 


CHAUCER.  G7 


8  «  Amor  vincit  omnia."— hoye  conquers  all  things.  We  are  to 
take  this  quotation  from  Ovid  in  a  religious  sense  ;  whatever 
charitable  thoughts  towards  others  the  good  nun  miglit  combine 
with  it. 

9  "  Preestts  <^rc."— The  Prioress,  for  all  her  fine  boarding-school 
breeding,  fed  heartily  as  well  as  nicely,  and  was  in  good  buxom 
condition.  We  are  not  to  suppose  that  the  "  Preestes  thre"  were 
less  so,  or  fared  ill  at  her  table.  One  of  them,  indeed,  who  is 
called  a  "  sweete  Preest,"  and  a  "  goodly  man,"  is  described  as 
having  a  "  large  breast,"  and  looking  like  "a  sparrow-hawk  with 
his  eyen."  It  is  he  that  tells  the  pleasant  fable  of  the  Cock  and 
the  Fox. 

10  ««  ^  Frere  ther  was,  a  wanton  and  a  mery, 
A  limitour,  a  ful  solempne  man." 

This  audacity  of  style,  making  the  Friar  at  once  merry  and 
solemn,  is  in  the  richest  comic  taste.  He  is  a  '^J'ul  solempne 
man  ;"  that  is  to  say,  excessively  and  ultra  solemn,  while  he  is 
about  it ;  so  much  so,  that  you  see  the  lurking  merriment  in  the 
excess.  He  shakes  his  head  and  cheeks,  speaks  hollow  in  the 
throat,  and  in  a  nasal  tone  of  disapprobation.  He  particularly 
excels  in  deprecating  what  he  approves.  Next  to  money-getting, 
he  would  object  to  luxury.  He  had  joined  numbers  of  young 
women  in  marriage  "  at  his  own  cost ;"  that  is  to  say,  for  no 
better  pay  than  being  the  merriest  fellow  at  the  wedding-dinner, 
and  looking  forward  to  every  possible  good  thing  in  the  household. 
If  a  widow  had  but  a  "  shoe"  left,  he  would  get  a  farthing  out  of 
it.  I  have  seen  such  jolly  beggars  in  Italy.  One  of  them,  a  fine 
handsome  young  man,  who  was  having  his  panniers  filled  at  a 
farmer's  door  (for  he  went  about  with  a  donkey),  invited  me  to  a 
pinch  of  snuff  with  all  the  unaffected  grace  of  his  country  ;  and 
on  my  praising  the  beauty  of  the  place  (it  was  at  Maiano,  on  the 
Fiesolan  hills,  looking  towards  Florence),  he  acquiesced  with  a 
sort  of  deprecating  admission  of  the  fact,  worthy  of  his  brother 
in  Chaucer ;  observing,  wliile  he  piously  turned  up  his  eyes,  that 
it  was  "good  enough  ^br  ijiis  world." 

"  "  Litel  gold  in  cofre." — A  hit  at  the  philosopher's  stone ;  or, 
by  inference,  at  the  poverty  of  philosophy  in  general. 


68  CHAUCER. 


Povera  e  nuda  vai,  Filosofia. 

Petrarch. 

Naked  and  poor  goest  thou,  Philosophy. 

But  the  twenty  books  at  the  bed's  head  pay  for  all. 

'2  "  ^nd  gladly  wold  he  lerne  and  gladly  /ecAe."— The  consumma- 
tion of  a  real  unaffected  lover  of  knowledge.  Yet  I  cannot  help 
being  of  opinion  with  Warton,  that  the  three  lines  beginning 
"not  a  word  spake  he,"  are  intended  to  imply  a  little  innocent 
pedantry.  Tyrwhitt  supposes  the  credit  of  good  letters  to  be 
concerned  in  our  thinking  otherwise.  (Moxon's  edition  of  Chau- 
cer, p.  175.)  But  Chaucer  thought  that  good  letters  could  bear 
a  little  banter,  without  losing  their  credit.  All  purely  serious 
scholars  in  those  times  had  a  tendency  to  pedantry  and  formality. 
Chaucer  only  escaped  it  himself  by  dint  of  the  gayer  part  of  his 
genius. 

13  <'  Jsfo  wher  so  besy  a  man  as  he  ther  n'as  ; 
And  yet  he  semed  besier  than  he  was." 

One  is  never  tired  of  repeating  this  exquisite  couplet.  So 
Lawyer  Dowling,  in  To?n  Jones,  wishes  he  could  cut  himself  into 
I  forget  how  many  pieces,  in  order  that  he  might  see  to  all  the 
affairs  which  he  had  to  settle. 

'••  "  His  barge  ycleped  was  the  Magdelaine." — This  gentle  peniten- 
tial name  has  a  curious  effect  in  connection  with  a  man  who  had 
no  nicety  of  conscience.  Was  it  meant  to  show  the  frequently 
irrelevant  nature  of  the  names  of  ships  ?  or  to  imply  that  the 
rough  seaman  had  a  soft  corner  in  his  heart  for  penitents  of  the 
fair  saint's  description  ?  The  line  about  the  tempest-shaken 
beard  is  an  effusion  of  the  finest  poetry.  It  invests  the  homely 
man  with  a  sudden  grandeur  ;  as  though  a  storm  itself  had  risen 
in  the  horizon,  dignifying  his  rude  vessel  with  danger. 


CHAUCER.  69 


THE  FRIAR'S  TALE  ; 

OR, 

THE    SUMMONER    AND    THE    DEVIL. 

A  Summoner  finds  himself  riding  in  company  with  a  Devil, 
and  makes  an  agreement  with  him  which  turns  out  to  be  of  an 
unexpected  nature. 

A  Summoner  was  a  church  officer,  who  cited  offenders  into 
the  ecclesiastical  court.  The  friars  and  the  dignified  clergy  were 
at  great  variance  in  Chaucer's  time  ;  and  tlierefore  it  is  a  friar 
who  relates  the  following  amusing  and  exquishely  complete 
story,  in  which  I  have  omitted  nothing  but  a  superfluous  exor- 
dium. 

— And  so  befell,  that  ones  on  a  day 
This  Sompnour,  waiting  ever  on  his  prey, 
Rode  forth  to  sompne  a  widewe,  an  old  ribibe,* 
Feining  a  cause,  for  he  wold  han  a  bribe. 
And  happed,  that  he  saw  beforn  him  ride 
A  gay  yeman  under  a  forest  side ; 
A  bow  he  bare  ;  and  arwes  bright  and  kene 
He  had  upon  a  courtepj'  of  grene. 
And  hat  upon  his  hed  with  frenges  blake. 

Sire,  quod  the  Sompnour,  haile  and  wel  atake. 

Welcome,  quod  he,  and  every  good  felaw. 
Whider  ridest  thou  under  this  grene  shaw  ? 
(Saide  this  yeman)  wolt  thou  fer  to-day .' 

A  sumgioner,  who  was  ever  on  the  watch  for  prey,  rode  forth  one  morn- 
ing to  cheat  a  poor  old  woman,  against  whom  he  pretended  to  have  a  com- 
plaint. His  track  lay  by  a  forest-side  ;  and  it  chanced,  that  he  saw  before 
him,  under  the  trees,  a  yeoman  on  horseback,  gaily  equipped  with  a  bow 
and  arrows.  The  stranger  was  in  a  short  green  cloak  :  and  he  had  a  hat 
with  a  black  fringe. 

"  Good-morrow,  sir,"  quoth  the  summoner,  overtaking  him. 

"  The  same  to  you,"  quoth  the  yeoman,  "  and  to  every  other  jolly  com- 
panion. What  road  are  you  bound  upon  to-day  through  the  green  wood  .' 
Are  you  going  far .'" 

•  Ribibe  was  a  word  for  the  musical  instrument  called  also  a  rebec  (a 
sort  of  guitar).  Why  it  was  applied  to  old  women  the  commentators  can- 
not say ;  Tyrwhitt  thinks,  perhaps  on  account  of  its  sharp  tone. 


70  CHAUCER, 


This  Sompnour  him  answerd,  and  saide,  Nay, 
Here  faste  by  (quod  he)  is  min  entent 
To  riden,  for  to  reisen  up  a  rent 
That  longeth  to  my  lordes  duetee. 
A  !  art  thou  than  a  baillif  ?     Ye,  quod  he. 
(He  dorste  not,  for  ver ay  filth  and  shame. 
Say  that  he  was  a  So?npnour,  fo?-  the  name). 

Be  par  Dieux,  quod  this  yeman,  leve  brother. 
Thou  art  a  baillif,  and  I  am  another ; 
I  am  unknowen  as  in  this  contree  ; 
Of  thin  acquaintance  I  wol  prayen  thee. 
And  eke  of  brothered,  if  that  thee  list. 
I  have  gold  and  silver  lying  in  my  chist ; 
If  that  thee  hap  to  come  into  our  shire, 
Al  shal  be  thin,  right  as  thou  wolt  desire. 

Grand  mercy,  qaod  this  Sompnour,  by  my  faith. 
Everich  in  others  bond  his  trouthe  laith 
For  to  be  sworne  brethren  til  they  dey. 
In  daliaunce  they  riden  forth  and  pley. 

This  Sompnour,  which  that  was  as  ful  of  jangles. 
As  ful  of  venime  ben  thise  wariangles,* 
And  ever  enquering  upon  everything. 
Brother,  quod  he,  wher  is  now  your  dwelling. 
Another  day  if  that  I  shuld  you  seche  ? 

This  yeman  him  answerd  in  softe  speche. 


"  No,"  replied  the  summoner.  "My  business  is  close  at  hand.  I'm 
only  going  about  a  rent  that's  owing  to  my  master." 

".Oh,  what,  you  are  a  bailift',  then  .'"  quoth  the  yeoman. 

"  Just  so,"  returned  the  summoner.  He  had  not  the  face  to  own  him- 
self what  he  was  ;  the  very  name  of  summoner  was  such  a  disgrace. 

"  Well  now  ;  that's  good,"  said  the  stranger  ;  "  for  I'm  a  bailiff  myself; 
and  as  I  am  not  very  well  acquainted  witli  this  part  of  the  country,  I  shall 
be  glad  of  your  good  offices,  if  you  have  no  objection  to  my  company.  I 
have  plenty  of  money  at  home  ;  so  if  you  travel  into  our  parts,  you  shall 
want  for  nothing." 

"  Many  thanks,"  cried  the  summoner;  "I'm  yours,  with  all  my  heart." 

The  new  friends  gave  their  hands  to  one  another,  and  pushed  on  their 
horses  merrily. 

The  summoner,  who  always  had  an  eye  to  business,  and  was  besides  of 
an  inquisitive  nature,  and  as  fond  of  poking  his  nose  into  everything  as  a 
wood-pecker,  lost  no  time  in  asking  the  stranger  where  he  lived,  in  case 
he  should  come  to  see  him. 

The  yeoman,  in  a  tone  of  singular  gentleness,  answered,  that  he  should 

*  Wariangles,  wood-peckers. 


CHAUCER.  71 


Brother,  quod  he,  fer  in  the  north  contree,* 
Wher  as  I  hope  sometime  I  shall  thee  see. 
Or  we  depart  I  shall  thee  so  wel  wisse, 
That  of  min  hous  ne  shalt  thou  never  misse. 

Now  brother,  quod  this  Sompnour,  I  you  pray 
Teche  me,  while  that  we  riden  by  the  way 
(Sith  that  ye  ben  a  baillif  as  am  I) 
Som  subtiitee,  and  tell  me  faithfully 
In  min  office  how  I  may  moste  winne ; 
And  spareth  not  for  conscience  or  for  sinne, 
But,  as  my  brother,  tell  me  how  do  ye. 

Now  by  my  trouthe,  brother  min,  said  he. 
As  I  shal  tellen  thee  a  faithful  tale, 
My  wages  ben  ful  strait  and  eke  ful  smale ; 
My  lord  is  hard  to  me  and  dangerous, 
And  min  office  is  ful  laborious. 
And  therefore  by  extortion  I  leve  ; 
Forsoth  I  take  all  that  men  wol  me  yeve  : 
Al  gates  by  sleighte  or  by  violence 
Fro  yere  to  yere  I  win  all  my  dispence  : 
I  can  no  better  tellen  faithfully. 

Now  certes  (quod  this  Sompnour)  so  fare  I ; 
I  spare  not  to  taken,  God  it  wote, 
But  if  it  be  to  hevy  or  to  hote. 
What  I  may  gete  in  conseil  prively, 
No  manor  conscience  of  that  have  1. 
N'ere  min  extortion  I  might  not  liven, 
Ne  of  swiche  japes  wol  I  not  be  shriven. 


be  very  glad  of  his  visit ;  that  he  lived  indeed  a  great  way  off,  in  the  north  ; 
but  that  before  they  parted,  he  would  instruct  him  so  well  in  the  locality, 
that  it  should  be  impossible  for  him  to  miss  it. 

"  Good,"  returned  the  summoner.  "  And  now,  as  we  are  of  one  accord 
and  one  occupation,  pray  let  me  into  a  secret  or  two,  how  I  may  prosper 
in  my  employment.  Don't  mince  the  matter  as  to  conscience  or  sin,  or 
any  of  that  kind  of  nonsense  ;  but  tell  me  plainly  how  you  transact  busi- 
ness yourself. 

"  Why,  to  say  the  truth,"  answered  the  yeoman,  "  I  have  a  very  hard 
master  and  very  little  wages;  and  so  I  live  by  extortion.  I  take  all  that 
people  give  me,  and  a  good  deal  more  besides.  I  couldn't  make  both  ends 
meet  else  ;  and  that's  the  plain  fact." 

"  Precisely  my  case,"  cried  the  summoner.  "  I  take  everything  I  can 
lay  my  hands  on,  unless  it  be  too  heavy  or  too  hot.     To  the  devil  wilh 


The  supposed  locality  of  devils. 


72  CHAUCER. 


Stomak  ne  conscience  know  I  non  ; 
I  shrew  thise  shrifte  faders  everich  on  : 
Wei  be  we  met,  by  God  and  by  Seint  Jame. 
But,  leve  brother,  tell  me  than  thy  namo. 
Quod  this  Sompnour.     Bight  in  this  menh  vhile 
ThiJi  yeman  gan  a  litel  for  to  smile. 

Brother,  quod  he,  wolt  thou  that  I  thee  tell  ? 
I  am  a  fend,  my  dwelling  is  in  hell ; 
And  here  I  ride  about  my  pourchasing 
To  wote  wher  men  wol  give  me  anything  : 
My  pourchas  is  th'  effect  of  all  my  rent ; 
Loke  how  thou  ridest  for  the  same  entent  : 
To  winnen  good  thou  rekest  never  how : 
Right  so  fare  I,  for  riden  wol  I  now 
Unto  the  worldes  ende  for  a  praye. 

A,  quod  this  Sompnour,  benedicite  .'  what  say  ye  ? 
I  wend  ye  were  a  yeman  trewely  ; 
Ye  have  a  mannes  shape  as  wel  as  I  : 
Have  ye  then  a  figure  determinat 
In  helle,  ther  ye  ben  in  your  estat  ? 

Nay,  certainly,  quod  he,  ther  hrve  we  non  ; 
But  whan  us  liketh  we  can  take  us  on. 
Or  elles  maVe  you  wene  that  we  ben  shape 
Sometime  like  a  man,  or  like  an  ape, 
Or  like  an  angel  can  I  ride  or  go  ; 
It  is  no  wonder  thing  though  it  be  so; 
A  lousy  jogelour  can  deceiven  thee. 
And  parde  yet  can  I  more  craft  than  he. 


conscience  and  repentance,  say  I.  Catch  me  at  confession  who  can.  Well 
are  we  met,  by  the  Lord.     What  is  your  name,  my  dear  fellow  .'" 

The  yeoman  began  smiling  a  little  at  this  question.  "  Why,  if  you  must 
know,"  quoth  he,  "  my  name,  betwixt  you  and  me,  is  Devil.  I  am  a  fiend, 
and  live  in  hell  ;  and  I  am  riding  hereabouts  to  see  what  I  can  get. 
Your  business  and  mine  is  precisely  the  same.  You  don't  care  how  you 
get  anything  provided  you  succeed  ;  nor  do  I.  I'll  ride  to  the  world's  end, 
for  instance,  this  very  morning,  sooner  than  not  meet  with  a  prey." 

"  God  bless  me,"  cried  the  summoner,  crossing  himself,  "  a  '  devil '  do 
you  say  .'  I  thought  you  were  a  man  like  myself.  You  have  a  man's  shape. 
Have  you  no  particular  shape  then  of  your  own  .'" 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  quoth  the  stranger.  "  We  take  what  likeness  we 
please ;  sometimes  a  man's,  sometimes  a  monkey's ;  nay,  an  angel's,  if  it 
suits  us.  And  no  marvel.  For  a  common  juggler  can  deceive  your  eyes 
in  such  matters  ;  and  it  is  haj-d  if  a  devil  can't  do  it  better  than  a  juggler." 


CHAUCER.  73 


Why,  quod  the  Sompnour,  ride  ye  than  or  gon 
In  sondry  shape,  and  not  alway  in  on  ? 

For  we,  quod  be,  wol  us  swiche  forme  mjike 
As  most  is  able  our  preye  for  to  take. 

What  maketh  you  to  han  al  this  labour  ! 

Ful  many  a  cause,  leve  Sire  Sompnour, 
Saide  this  fend.     But  alle  thing  hath  time  ; 
The  day  is  short,  and  it  is  passed  prime, 
And  yet  ne  wan  I  nothing  in  this  day ; 
I  wol  entend  to  winning  if  I  may. 
And  not  intend  our  thinges  to  declare  ; 
For,  brother  min,  thy  wil  is  al  to  bare 
To  understand,  although  I  told  hem  thee. 
But  for  thou  axest  why  labouren  we  .' 
For  sometime  we  be  Goddes  instruments, 
And  menes  to  don  his  commandements 
Whan  that  him  list,  upon  his  creatures 
In  divers  actes  and  in  divers  figiires  : 
Withouten  him  we  have  no  might  certain. 
If  that  him  list  to  stonden  theragain. 
And  sometime  at  our  praiere  han  we  leve 
Only  the  body  and  not  the  soul  .to  greve  ; 
Witnesse  on  Job,  whom  that  we  diden  wo  ; 
And  sometime  han  we  might  on  bothe  two 
This  is  to  sain,  on  soule  and  body  eke : 
And  sometime  be  we  suffered  for  to  seke 
Upon  a  man,  and  don  liis  soule  unrest 
And  not  his  body,  and  all  is  for  the  beste. 
Whan  he  withstandeth  our  temptation. 
It  is  a  cause  of  his  salvation  ; 

"  But  why,"  inquired  the  summoner,  "  not  be  content  with  some  one 
shape  in  particular  ?" 

"  Because,"  replied  the  other,  "  the  more  disguises,  the  more  booty." 

"  That  is  taking  a  great  deal  of  trouble,  is  it  not ';''  asked  the  summoner. 
'^  Why  couldn't  you  take  less  ?" 

"  For  many  reasons,  good  Master  Sunimoner,"  quoth  the  devil.  "  But 
all  in  good  time.  The  day  wears,  and  I  have  got  nothing  yet,  so  I  must 
gittend  to  business.  Besides,  you  couldn't  understand  the  matter,  if  I  told 
it.  You  haven't  wit  enough  for  its  comprehension.  But  if  you  ask  why 
we  trouble  ourselves  at  all,  you  must  know,  that  God  wills  if,  and  that 
devils  themselves  are  but  instruments  in  his  hands.  We  can  do  nothing  at 
all  if  he  doesn't  choose  it ;  and  do  what  we  may,  we  can  sometimes  go  no 
further  than  the  body.  We  are  not  always  permitted  to  touch  the  soul. 
Witness  the  case  of  Job.  Sometimes,  on  the  other  hand,  we  are  permitted 
to  torment  a  man's  soul,  and  not  his  body :  and  all  is  lor  the  best.  Our 
very  temptations  are  the  cause  of  a  man  being  saved,  if  he  resists  them 

5 


74  CHAUCER. 


Al  be  it  that  it  was  not  our  entente 
He  shuld  be  sauf,  but  that  we  wold  him  hente. 
And  sometime  be  we  servants  unto  man, 
As  to  the  Archebishop  Seint  Dunstan, 
And  to  the  Apostle  servant  eke  was  I. 

Yet  tell  me,  quod  this  Sompnour,  faithfully. 
Make  ye  you  newe  bodies  thus  alway 
Of  elements  ?     The  fend  answered,  Nay. 
Sometime  we  feine,  and  sometime  we  arise 
With  dede  bodies,  in  ful  sondry  wise. 
And  speke  as  re'nably,  and  faire,  and  wel. 
As  to  the  Phitonesse  did  Samuel ; 
And  yet  wol  som  men  say  it  was  not  he : 
I  do  no  force  of  your  divinitee. 
But  o  thing  warne  I  thee,  I  wol  not  jape  ; 
Thou  wolt  algates  wete  how  we  be  shape  ; 
Thou  shalt  hereafterward,  my  brother  dere, 
Com  wher  thee  nedeth  not  of  me  to  lere. 
For  thou  shalt  by  thin  owen  experience 
Conne  in  a  chailre  rede  of  this  sentence 
Bet  than  Virgili.,  while  he  was  on  live. 
Or  Dant  also.     Now  let  us  riden  blive. 
For  I  wol  holden  compagnie  with  thee 
Til  it  be  so  that  thou  forsake  me. 

Nay,  quod  this  Sompnour,  that  shal  never  betide. 
I  am  a  yeman  knowen  is  ful  wide  ; 
My  trouthe  wol  I  hold  to  thee,  my  brother. 
As  I  have  sworne,  and  eche  of  us  to  other. 

Not  that  we  have  any  such  good  intention.  Our  design  is  to  carry  him 
away  with  us,  body  and  soul.  Sometimes  we  are  even  compelled  to  be 
servants  to  a  man.  Archbishop  Dunstan  had  a  devil  for  a  servant ;  and  I 
served  an  Apostle  myself" 

"  And  have  you  a  new  body  every  time  you  disguise  yourselves,"  in- 
quired the  summoner  ;  "  or  is  it  only  a  seeming  body  ?" 

"  Only  a  seeming  body  sometimes,"  answered  the  devil.  "  Sometimes 
also  we  possess  a  dead  body,  and  give  people  as  good  substantial  words,  as 
Samuel  did  to  the  witch  ;  though  some  learned  persons  are  of  opinion  that 
it  was  not  Samuel  whom  she  raised,  but  only  his  likeness.  Be  all  this  as 
it  may,  of  one  thing  you  may  be  certain,  my  good  friend  ;  and  that  is,  that 
you  shall  know  more  of  us  by-and-by,  and  be  able  to  talk  more  learnedly 
about  it,  than  Virgil  did  when  he  was  living,  or  Dante  himself.  At  pre- 
sent, let  us  push  on.  I  like  your  company  vastly  ;  and  will  stick  to  you,  as 
long  as  you  do  not  choose  to  forsake  mine." 

"  Nay,"  cried  the  summoner,  "  never  talk  of  that.  I  am  very  well 
known  for  respectability  ;  and  I  hold  myself  as  tirmly  pledged  to  you,  as 


CHAUCER.  15 


For  to  be  trewe  brethren  in  this  cas, 
And  bothe  we  gon  abouten  our  pourchas. 
Take  thou  thy  part,  what  that  men  wol  thee  yeve. 
And  I  shall  min,  thus  may  we  bothe  leve  ; 
And  if  that  any  of  us  have  more  than  other, 
Let  him  be  trewe,  and  part  it  with  his  brother. 

I  graunte,  quod  the  devil,  by  my  fay  ; 
And  with  that  word  they  riden  forth  her  way ; 
And  right  at  entring  of  the  tounes  ende 
To  which  this  Sompnour  shope  him  for  to  wende, 
They  saw  a  cart  that  charged  was  with  hay. 
Which  that  a  carter  drove  forth  on  his  way. 
Depe  was  the  way,  for  which  the  carte  stood ; 
The  carter  smote,  and  cried  as  he  were  wood, 
Hcit,  Scot ;  heit,  Brok  ;  what,  spare  ye  for  the  stones .' 
The  fend  (quod  he)  you  fecche,  body  and  bones, 
As  ferforthly  as  ever  ye  were  foled. 
So  mochel  wo  as  I  have  with  you  tholed. 
The  devil  have  al,  bothe  hors,  and  cart,  and  hay. 

The  Sompnour  sayde.  Here  shal  we  have  a  praye  ; 
And  nere  the  fend  he  drow,  as  nought  ne  were, 
Ful  prively,  and  rouned  in  his  ere ; 
Herken,  my  brother,  herken,  by  thy  faith ; 
Herest  thou  not  how  that  the  carter  saith  ? 
Hent  it  anon,  for  he  hath  yeve  it  thee, 
Both  hay  and  cart,  and  eke  his  caples  three. 

Nay,  quod  the  devil,  God  wot,  never  a  del ! 
It  is  not  his  entente,  trust  thou  me  wel : 
Axe  him  thyself,  if  thou  not  trowest  me  ; 
Or  elles  stint  awhile,  and  thou  shalt  see. 

you  do  yourself  to  me.  We  are  to  ride  and  prosper  together.  You  are  to 
take  what  people  give  you ;  I  am  to  take  what  I  can  get ;  and  if  the  profits 
turn  out  to  be  unequal,  we  divide  them." 

"  Quite  right,"  said  the  devil ;  and  so  they  push  forward. 

They  were  now  entering  a  town  ;  and  before  them  was  a  hay-cart  which 
had  stuck  in  the  mud.  The  carter,  who  was  in  a  rage,  whipped  his  horses 
like  a  madman.  "  Heit,  Scot !  heit,  Brok  !"  cried  he  to  the  beasts ; 
"  What !  it's  the  stones,  is  it,  that  make  you  so  lazy  ?  The  devil  take  ye 
both,  say  I  Am  I  to  be  thwacking  and  thumping  all  day.'  The  devil 
take  you,  hay,  cart,  and  all." 

"  Ho,  ho  !"  quoth  the  summoner,  "  here's  something  to  be  got."  He 
drew  close  to  his  companion,  and  whispered  him  :  "  Don't  you  hear  ?"  said 
he.     "  The  carter  gives  you  his  hay,  cart,  and  three  horses." 

"  Not  he,"  answered  the  devil.  "  He  says  so,  but  he  doesn't  mean  it. 
Ask  him,  if  he  does.     Or  wait  a  little,  and  you'll  see." 


76  CHAUCER. 


This  carter  thakketh  his  hors  upon  the  croupe, 
And  they  begonne  to  drawen  and  to  stoupe. 
Heit  now,  quod  he  ;  ther,  Jesu  Crist  you  blesse. 
And  all  his  hondes  vverk,  bothe  more  and  lesse  ! 
That  was  wel  twight,  mine  owen  Liard  boy: 
I  pray  God  save  thy  body  and  Seint  Eloy. 
Now  is  my  cart  out  of  the  slough,  parde. 

Lo,  brother,  quod  the  fend,  what  told  I  thee. 
Here  may  ye  seen,  mine  owen  dere  brother, 
The  cherl  spake  o  tiling,  but  he  thought  another. 
Let  us  go  forth  abouten  our  viage  ; 
Here  win  I  nothing  upon  this  cariage. 

Whan  that  they  comen  somwhat  out  of  toun, 
This  Sompnour  to  his  brother  gan  to  roune  ; 
Brother,  quod  he,  here  woneth  an  old  rebekke, 
That  had  almost  as  lefe  to  lese  hire  nekke 
As  for  to  yeve  a  peny  of  hire  good : 
I  wol  have  twelf  pens,  though  that  she  be  wood, 
Or  I  wol  somone  hire  to  our  office ; 
And  yet,  God  wot,  of  hire  know  I  no  vice  ; 
But  for  thou  canst  not  as  in  this  contree 
Winnen  thy  cost,  take  here  ensample  of  me. 

This  Sompnour  clappeth  at  the  widewes  gate  ; 
Come  out,  he  sayd,  thou  olde  very  trate ; 
I  trow  thou  hast  som  frere  or  preest  with  thee. 

Who  clappeth  ?  said  this  wif,  benedicite  ! 

The  carter  thwacked  his  horses  again,  and  they  began  to  stoop  and  to  draw. 
"Heit  now; — gee  up; — matthy  ivo ; — ah, — God  bless  'em — there  they 
come.  That  was  well  twitched.  Grey,  my  old  boy.  God  bless  you,  say  I, 
and  Saint  Elias  to  boot.     My  cart's  out  of  the  slough  at  last." 

"  There,"  said  the  devil ;  "  You  see  how  it  is.  The  fellow  said  one 
thing,  but  he  thought  another.  We  must  e'en  push  on.  There's  nothing 
to  be  got  here. 

The  companions  continued  their  way  through  the  town,  and  were  just 
quitting  it,  when  the  summoner,  pulling  his  bridle  as  he  reached  a  cottage 
door,  said,  "  There's  an  old  hag  living  here,  who  would  almost  as  soon 
break  her  neck  as  part  with  a  halfpenny  I'll  get  a  shilling  out  of  her,  for 
that,  though  it  drive  her  mad.  She  shall  have  a  summons  else,  and  that'll 
be  worse  for  her.  Not  that  she  has  committed  any  offence,  God  knows. 
That's  quite  another  business.  But  mark  me  now  :  and  see  what  you  must 
do,  if  you  would  get  anything  in  these  parts." 

The  summoner  rattled  the  old  woman's  gate,  crying,  "  Come  out,  old 
trot ; — come  out ; — you've  got  some  friar  or  priest  with  you  !" 

♦'  Who's  there  ?"  said  the  woman.  "  Lord  bless  us  !  God  save  you,  sir  ! 
What  is  your  will .'" 


CHAUCER.  77 


God  save  you,  sire,  what  is  your  swete  will .' 

I  have,  quod  he,  of  somons  here  a  bill : 
Up  peine  of  cursing  loke  that  thou  be 
To-morwe  before  the  archedekenes  knee, 
To  answere  to  the  court  of  certain  thinges. 

Now  Lord,  quod  she,  Christ  Jesu,  King  of  kinges, 
So  wisely  helpe  me  as  I  ne  may, 
I  have  been  sike,  and  that  full  many  a  day  : 
I  may  not  go  so  fer  (quod  she)  ne  ride 
But  I  be  ded,  sopriketh  it  my  side. 
May  I  not  axe  a  libel.  Sire  Sompnour, 
And  answere  ther  by  my  procuratour 
To  swiche  thing  as  men  wold  apposen  me  ? 

Yes,  quod  this  Sompnour,  pay  anon,  let  see, 
'Twelf  pens  to  me,  and  1  will  thee  acquits : 
I  shall  no  profit  han  therby  but  lite  ; 
My  maister  hath  the  profit  and  not  I. 
Come  of,  and  let  me  riden  hastily  ; 
Yeve  me  twelf  pens,  I  may  no  lenger  tarie. 

Twelf  pens  !  quod  she ;  now  Lady  Seint  Marie 
So  wisly  helpe  me  out  of  care  and  sinne. 
This  wide  world  though  that  I  shuld  it  winne, 
Ne  have  I  not  twelf  pens  within  my  hold. 
Ye  knowen  wel  that  I  am  poure  and  old  ; 
Kithe  your  almesse  upon  me,  poure  wretche. 

Nay  then,  quod  he,  the  foule  fend  me  fetche 


"  I've  a  summons  for  you,"  said  the  man.  "  You  must  be  with  the 
archdeacon  to-morrow,  on  pain  of  excommunication,  to  answer  to  certain 
charges." 

"  Charges  !"  cried  the  poor  woman.  "  Heaven  help  me  !  there  can  be 
no  charges  against  a  poor  sick  body  like  me.  How  am  I  to  come  to  the 
archdeacon .'  I  can't  even  go  in  a  cart,  it  gives  me  such  a  pain  in  my 
side.  Mayn't  I  have  a  summons  on  paper,  and  so  get  the  lawyer  to  see 
to  it  ?" 

"  To  be  sure  you  may,"  answered  the  summoner,  "  provided  you  pay  me 
down — let  me  see— ay,  a  shilling.  That  will  be  your  quittance,  and  all. 
I  get  nothing  by  it,  I  assure  you.  My  master  has  all  the  fees.  Come, 
make  haste,  for  I  must  be  going.     A  shilling.     Do  you  hear  ?" 

"  A  shilling  ?"  exclaimed  she.  "  Heaven  bless  us  and  save  us  !  Where, 
in  all  the  wide  world,  am  I  to  get  a  shilling  .'  You  know  I  haven't  a  pen- 
ny to  save  my  life.  It's  myself,  that  ought  to  have  a  shilling  given  to  me, 
poor  wretch !" 

"  Devil  fetch  me  then,  if  you  won't  be  cast,"  said  the  summoner  ;  "  for 
I  shan't  utter  a  syllable  in  your  favor." 


7S  CHAUCER. 


If  I  thee  excuse,  though  thou  shuldest  be  spilt. 
Alas  !  quod  she,  God  wot  I  have  no  gilt. 

Pay  me,  quod  he,  or  by  the  swete  Seinte  Anne 
As  I  wol  bere  away  thy  newe  panne 
For  dette  which  thou  owest  me  of  old, 
Whan  that  thou  madest  thyn  husbond  cokewold, 
I  paied  at  home  for  thy  correction. 

Thou  liest,  quod  she,  by  my  salvation  ; 
Ne  was  I  never  or  now,  widew  ne  wif, 
Sompned  unto  your  court  in  all  my  lif, 
Ne  never  I  n'as  but  of  my  body  trewe. 
Unto  the  devil  rough  and  blake  of  hewe 
Yeve  I  thy  body  and  my  panne  also. 

And  whan  the  devil  herd  hire  cursen  so 
Upon  hire  knees,  he  sayd  in  this  manere ; 

JYow,  JUabily,  min  owen  moder  dere. 
Is  this  your  will  in  earnest  that  ye  say  7 

The  devil,  quod  she,  so  fetche  him  or  he  dey, 
And  panne  and  all,  but  he  wol  him  repent. 

Nay,  olde  stot,  that  is  not  min  entent. 
Quod  this  Sompnour,  for  to  repenten  me 
For  anything  that  I  have  had  of  thee  : 
I  wold  I  had  thy  smok  and  every  cloth. 

JVow,  brother,  quod  the  devil,  be  not  wroth  ; 
Thy  body  and  this  panne  ben  min  by  right : 
Thou  shalt  with  me  to  helle  yet  to-night, 

"  Alas  !"  cried  she,  "God  knows  I'm  innocent !  I've  done  nothing  in 
the  world." 

"  Pay  me,"  interrupted  the  summoner,  "  or  I'll  carry  away  the  new  pan 
I  see  yonder.  You  have  owed  me  as  much  years  ago,  for  getting  you  out 
of  that  scrape  about  your  husband." 

"  Scrape  about  my  husband  !"  cried  the  old  widow.  "  What  scrape  ! 
You  are  a  lying  wretch.  I  never  was  in  any  scrape  about  my  husband,  or 
anything  ;  nor  ever  summoned  into  your  court  in  all  my  born  days.  Go  to 
the  devil  yourself.     May  he  take  you  and  the  pan  together." 

The  poor  old  soul  fell  on  her  knees  as  she  said  these  words,  in  order  to 
give  the  greater  strength  to  the  imprecation. 

"  Now,  Mabel,  my  good  mother,"  cried  the  devil,  "  do  you  speak  this  in 
earnest  ?" 

"  Ay,  marry  do  I,"  cried  she  "  May  the  devil  fetch  him,  pan  and  all ; 
that  is  to  say,  unless  he  repents." 

"  Repent !"  exclaimed  the  summoner  :  "  I'd  sooner  take  every  rag  you 
have  on  your  bones,  you  old  reprobate." 

"  Now,  brother,"  said  the  devil,  "  calm  your  feelings.  I'm  very  sorry, 
but  you  must  e'en  go  where  the  old  woman  desires.     You  and  the  pan  are 


CHAUCER.  79 


TVher  thou  shall  knowin  of  our  privetee 
J\Iore  than  a  maister  of  divinitee. 

And  %vith  that  word  the  foule  fend  him  bent 
Body  and  soule  :  he  with  the  devil  went 

Wher  as  thise  Sonipnours  han  hir  heritage. 


THE  PARDONER'S  WAY  OF  PREACHING. 

Lordings,  quod  he,  in  chirche  tohan  I preche, 
I  peine  me  to  have  an  hautein  speche. 
And  ring  it  out  as  round  as  goth  a  bell. 
For  I  can  all  by  rote  that  I  tell. 
My  feme  is  always  on,  and  ever  was, 
"  Radix  malorum  est  cupiditas."' 
***** 

Than  peine  I  me  to  stretchen  forth  my  necke. 
And  est  and  west  upon  the peple  J  becke. 
As  doth  a  dove  sitting  upon  a  berne  : 
Myn  hondes  and  my  tonge  gon  so  yerne. 
That  it  is  joye  to  see  my  besinesse. 
Of  avarice  and  swiche  cursednesse 
Is  all  my  preching,  for  to  make  hem  free 
To  yeve  hire  pens,  and  namely,  unto  me  ; 
For  min  entente  is  not  but  for  to  winne. 
And  nothing  for  correction  of  sinne : 


mine.     We  must  arrive  to-night;  and  then  you'll  know  more  about  us  all 
and  our  craft,  than  ever  was  discovered  by  Doctor  of  Divinity," 

And  with  these  words,  sure  enough,  the  devil  carried  liim  off.     He  took 
him  to  the  place  where  summoners  are  in  the  habit  of  going. 


Gentlemen  (said  the  pardoner),  whenever  I  preach  in  the  pulpit,  I  make 
a  point  of  being  as  noisy  as  possible,  ringing  the  whole  sermon  out  as  loud 
as  a  bell ;  for  which  purpose  I  get  it  by  heart.  My  text  is  always  the 
same,  and  ever  was  : — 

"  Radix  malorum  est  cupiditas." 

I  stretch  forth  my  neck  and  nod  on  the  congregation  right  and  left,  like  a 
dove  sitting  on  a  barn  ;  and  my  hands  and  my  tongue  go  so  busily  together, 
that  it  is  a  plea.sure  to  see  me.  I  preach  against  nothing  but  avarice,  and 
cursed  vices  of  that  sort;  for  my  only  object  is  to  make  the  people  disburse 
freely ;  videlicet,  unto  myself.     My  sermon  has  never  any  other  purpose. 


80  CHAUCER. 


I  recke  never  whan  that  they  be  beried, 
Though  that  hire  soules  gon  a  blake-beried. 

*  *  *  ^:  * 

Therefore  my  teme  is  yet,  and  ever  was, 
Radix  malorum  est  cupbditas. 

'  "  Radix  malorum  est  cupiditas." — Covetousness  is  the  root  of  all 
evil. — Those  critics  who  supposed  that  Chaucer,  notwithstanding 
his  intimacy  with  the  Latin  and  Italian  poets,  and  his  own 
hatred  of  "  mis-metre,"  had  no  settled  rules  of  versification, 
would  have  done  well  to  consider  the  I'hythmical  exactitude  with 
which  he  fits  Latin  quotations  into  his  lines.  See  another 
instance  in  the  extract  entitled  Gallantry  of  Translation.  He  is 
far  more  particular  in  this  respect  than  versifiers  of  later  ages. 


THE  MERCHANT'S  OPINION  OF  WIVES. 

A  wif  is  Goddes  yefte  veraily  ^ 
All  other  maner  yeftes  hardely. 
As  londes,  rentes,  pasture,  or  commune4 
Or  mebles,  all  ben  yeftes  of  Fortiine, 
TJiat  passen  as  a  shadoiv  on  the  wall  : 
But  drede  thou  not  if  plainly  speke  I  shal ; 
A  wif  wot  last  and  in  thin  hous  endure 
Wei  lenger  than  thee  list — parave7iture. 


I  care  nothing  for  the  amendment  of  the  disbursers.  When  the  sexton  is 
ready  for  them,  I  have  done  with  them.  They  may  go  where  they  please 
for  me,  by  millions,  like  black-berries.  Therefore  my  only  text,  I  say,  is 
still,  and  always  was, 

"  Radix  malorum  est  cupiditas.'^ 


A  wife  is  the  gift  of  Heaven  : — there's  no  doubt  of  it.  Every  other  kind 
of  gift,  such  as  lands,  rents,  furniture,  right  of  pasture  or  common, — these 
are  all  mere  gifts  of  fortune,  that  pass  away  like  shadows  on  a  wall ;  but 
you  have  to  apprehend  no  such  misfortune  with  a  wife.  Your  wife  will 
last  longer,  perhaps,  even  than  you  may  desire. 


CHAUCER.  8i 


A  wif  ?     A  !     Seinte  Marie,  henedicite  ! 
How  might  a  man  have  any  adversite 
That  hath  a  wif  ?  certes  I  cannot  seye. 
The  blisse  the  which  that  is  betwix  hem  tweye 
Ther  may  no  tonge  telle  or  herte  thinke. 
If  he  be  poure,  she  helpeth  him  to  swinke  ; 
She  kepeth  his  goods,  and  wasteth  never  a  del ; 
All  that  hire  husbond  doth,  hire  liketh  wel : 
She  saith  not  ones,  J\''ay,  whan  he  saith.  Ye. 
Do  this,  saith  he  ;  Al  redy,  sire,  saith  she. 

0  blissful  ordre,  o  wedlok  precious ! 
Thou  art  so  mery  and  eke  so  vertuous. 
And  so  commended  and  appj-oved  eke, 
That  every  man  that  holt  him  worth  a  leke, 
Upon  his  bare  knees  ought,  all  his  lif, 
Thanken  his  God  that  him  hath  sent  a  wif. 
Or  elles  pray  to  God  him  for  to  send 
A  wife  to  last  unto  his  lives  end ; 
For  than  his  lif  is  set  in  sikerness, 
He  may  not  be  deceived,  as  I  gesse. 
So  that  he  werche  after  his  wives  rede  ; 
Thati  may  he  boldly  beren  vp  his  hede. 
They  ben  so  trewe,  and  thervvithal  so  wise ; 
For  which,  if  thou  wilt  werchen  as  the  wise. 
Do  alway  so  as  women  wol  thee  rede. 


A  wife  ?  Why,  bless  my  soul,  how  can  a  man  have  any  adversity  that  has 
a  wife  ?  Answer  me  tliat.  Tongue  cannot  tell,  nor  heart  think,  of  the 
felicity  there  is  between  a  man  and  his  wife.  If  he  is  poor,  she  helps  him 
to  work.  She  takes  care  of  his  money  for  him,  and  never  wastes  anything. 
She  never  says  "  yes,"  when  he  says  "  no."  "  Do  this,"  says  he.  "  Di- 
rectly," says  she. 

0  blessed  institvition  !  0  precious  wedlock  !  thou  art  so  joyous,  and  at 
the  same  time  so  virtuous,  and  so  recommended  to  us  all,  and  so  approved 
by  us  all,  that  every  man  w'ho  is  worth  a  farthing  should  go  down  on  his 
bare  knees,  every  day  of  his  existence,  and  thank  Heaven  for  having  sent 
him  a  wife ;  or  if  he  hasn't  got  one,  he  ought  to  pray  for  one,  and  beg  that 
she  may  last  him  to  his  life's  end  ;  for  his  life,  in  that  case,  is  set  in 
security.     Nothing  can  deceive  him. 

He  has  only  to  act  by  his  wife's  advice,  and  he  may  hold  up  his  head 
with  the  best.  A  wife  is  so  true, — so  wise.  Oh!  ever  while  you  live, 
take  your  wife's  advice,  if  you  would  be  thought  a  wise  man. 

5* 


82  CHAUCER. 


GALLANTRY  OF  TRANSLATION. 

In  the  fable  of  the  Cock  and  the  Fox,  the  Cock,  who  has  been 
alarmed  by  a  dream,  and  consulting  about  it  with  his  wife  Dame 
Partlet,  quotes  a  Latin  sentence  which  tells  us,  that  "  woman  is 
man's  confusion,"  but  he  contrives  at  once  to  retain  the  satire, 
and  make  the  lady  feel  grateful  for  it,  by  the  following  exquisite 
version  : — 

But  let  us  speke  of  mirthe,  and  stinte  all  this. 

Madame  Pertelot,  so  have  I  blis, 

Of  o  thing  God  hath  sent  me  large  grace  : 

For  whan  I  see  the  beautee  of  your  face, 

Ye  ben  so  scarlet  red  about  your  eyen. 

It  maketh  all  my  drede  for  to  dien  ; 

For,  al  so  sicker  as  In  principio, 

MUHER  EST  HOMINIS  CONFUSIO. 

Madame,  the  sentence  of  this  Latine  is. 
Woman  is  mannes  joye  and  mamies  blis} 

'  "  Woman  is  mannes  joy  and  mannes  blis." — Or  as  the  same 
words  would  have  been  written  at  a  later  day  : — 

Woman  is  man  his  joy  and  man  his  bliss. 

The  Latin  quotation  is  from  the  writings  of  a  Dominican  friar, 
Vincent  de  Beauvais.  Sir  Walter  Scott  was  much  taken  with 
this  wicked  jest  of  Chanticleer's.  "  The  Cock's  polite  version," 
says  he,  "  is  very  ludicrous."  (Edition  of  Drydon,  vol.  xi.,  p. 
340.)  Dryden's  translation  of  the  passage  is  very  inferior  to  the 
original : — 


*£5' 


"  Madam,  the  meaning  of  this  Latin  is. 
That  woman  is  to  man  his  sovereign  bliss." 


But  let  us  speak  of  mirth,  and  put  an  end  to  all  this.  Madame  Partlet, 
as  I  hope  to  be  saved.  Heaven  has  shown  me  special  favor  in  one  respect ; 
for  when  I  behold  the  beauty  of  your  face,  you  are  so  scarlet  red  about  the 
eyes,  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  dread  anything. 

There  is  an  old  and  a  true  saying,  the  same  now  as  it  was  in  the  beginning 
of  the  world,  and  that  is,  Mulier  est  hominis  confusio.  Madam,  the  mean- 
ing of  this  Latin  is, — Woman  is  man's  joy  and  man's  bliss. 


CHAUCER.  S3 


The  conventional  phrase  "  sovereign  bliss,"  is  nothing  compared 
with  the  grave  repetition  and  enforcement  of  the  insult  in 
Chaucer : — 


Woman  is  mannes  /o_y  and  mannes  blis. 


THE  DISAPPEARANCE  OF  THE  FAIRIES. 

In  olde  dayes  of  the  King  Artour, 
Of  which  that  Bretons  speken  gret  honour, 
All  Wd3  tliis  lond  fulfilled  of  Faerie; 
The  Elf  queue  with  hire  joly  compagnie 
Danced  ful  oft  in  many  a  grene  mede  ; 
This  was  the  cid  opinion,  as  I  rede  ; 
I  speke  of  many  hundred  yeres  ago, 
But  now  can  no  man  see  non  elves  me ; 
For  now  the  grete  charitee  and  prayeres 
Of  limitoures  and  other  lioly  freres. 
That  serchen  every  land  and  every  streme, 
As  thikke  as  motes  in  the  sonne  heme, 
Blissing  halles,  chambres,  kichenes,  and  boures, 
Citees  and  burghes,  castles  highe  and  toures, 
Thropes  and  bernes,  shepenes  and  dairies, 
This  maketh  that  ther  ben  no  Faeries  : 
For  ther  as  wont  to  walken  was  an  elf, 
Ther  walketh  now  the  liniitour  himself 
In  undermeles  and  in  morweninges, 
And  sayth  his  matines  and  his  holy  thinges 
As  he  goth  in  his  limitatVoun. 
Women  may  now  go  safely  up  and  down; 

In  the  old  days  of  King  Arthur,  which  the  Bretons  hold  in  such  high 
estimation,  this  land  was  all  full  of  fairies.  The  Elf-Queen,  with  her 
merry  attendants,  was  always  dancing  about  the  green  meads.  Such  at 
least  was  the  opinion  a  long  time  ago, — many  hundred  years.  Nowadays 
we  see  them  no  longer  ;  for  the  charity  and  piety  of  the  begging  friars, 
and  others  of  their  holy  brethren,  who  make  search  everywhere  by  land 
and  water,  as  thick  as  the  motes  in  the  sun-beams,  blessing  our  halls, 
chambers,  kitchens,  bowers,  cities,  boroughs,  towers,  castles,  villages, 
barns,  dairies,  and  sheep-folds,  have  caused  the  fairies  to  vanish ;  for 
where  the  fairy  used  to  be,  there  is  now  the  friar  himself  You  are  sure 
to  meet  him  before  breakfast  and  dinner,  saying  his  matins  and  holy  things, 
and  going  about  with  his  wallet.     Women  may  now  go  up  and  down  ia 


84  CHAUCER. 


In  every  bush,  and  under  every  tree, 
Ther  is  non  other  Incubus  but  he} 


safety ;  for  though  they  may  see  things  in  the  bushes  and  under  the  trees, 
it's  only  the  friar.     There  is  no  other  incubus  but  he. 

»  "  Ther  is  non  other  incubus  but  he." — The  incubus  was  the  suc- 
cessor of  the  ancient  Faun ;  and,  though  a  mischievous  spirit, 
was  supposed  to  be  sometimes  in  love.  Hence  a  twofold  satire  in 
the  allusion. 


SHAKSPEARE.  85 


SHAKSPEARE. 

[See  the  volume  entitled  "Imagination  and  Fancy"  page  106.] 


Shakspeare  had  as  great  a  comic  genius  as  tragic  ;  and  every, 
body  would  think  so,  were  it  possible  for  comedy  to  impress  the 
mind  as  tragedy  does.  It  is  true,  the  times  he  lived  in,  as  Hazlitt 
has  remarked,  were  not  so  foppish  and  ridiculous  as  those  of  our  prose 
comic  dramatists,  and  therefore  he  had  not  so  much  to  laugh  at:  and 
it  is  observed  by  the  same  critic,  with  equal  truth,  that  his  genius 
was  of  too  large  and  magnanimous  a  description  to  delight  in  satire. 
But  who  doubts  that  had  Shakspeare  lived  in  those  inferior  times, 
the  author  of  the  character  of  Mercutio  could  have  written  that 
of  Dorimant  ?  of  Benedick  and  Beatrice,  the  dialogues  of  Con- 
greve  ?  or  of  Ttoelfth  Night  and  the  Taming  of  the  Shrew,  the 
most  uproarious  farce  ?  I  certainly  cannot  think  with  Dr. 
Johnson,  that  he  wrote  comedy  better  than  tragedy ;  that  "  his 
tragedy  seems  to  be  skill,  and  his  comedy  instinct."  I  could  as 
soon  believe  that  the  instinct  of  Nature  was  confined  to  laughter, 
and  that  her  tears  were  shed  upon  principles  of  criticism.  Such 
may  have  been  the  Doctor's  recipe  for  writing  tragedy  ;  but  Ire7ie 
is  not  King  Lear.  Laughter  and  tears  are  alike  born  with  us, 
and  so  was  the  power  of  exciting  them  with  Shakspeare  ;  because 
it  pleased  Nature  to  make  him  a  complete  human  being. 

Shakspeare  had  wit  and  humor  in  perfection ;  and  like  every 
possessor  of  powers  so  happy,  he  rioted  in  their  enjoyment.  Mo- 
liere  was  not  fonder  of  running  down  a  joke  :  Rabelais  could  not 
give  loose  to  a  more  "  admirable  fooling."  His  mirth  is  com- 
mensurate with  his  melancholy  :  it  is  founded  on  the  same  know- 
ledge and  feeling,  and  it  furnished  him  with  a  set-ofF  to  their  op- 


86  SHAKSPEARE. 


pression.  When  he  had  been  too  thoughtful  with  Hamlet,  he 
"  took  it  out"  with  Falstaff  and  Sir  Toby.  Not  that  he  was  ha- 
bitually melancholy.  He  had  too  healthy  a  brain  for  that,  and 
too  great  animal  spirits ;  but  in  running  the  whole  circle  of 
thought,  he  must  of  necessity  have  gone  thi'ough  its  darkest  as 
well  as  brightest  phases ;  and  the  sunshine  was  welcome  in  pro- 
portion. Shakspeare  is  the  inventor  of  the  phrase,  "  setting  the 
table  in  a  roar ;"  of  the  memory  of  Yorick ;  of  the  stomach  of 
Falstaff,  stuffed  as  full  of  wit  as  of  sack.  He  "  wakes  the  night- 
owl  with  a  catch;"  draws  "three  souls  out  of  one  weaver  ;" 
passes  the  "  equinoctial  of  Queubus"  (some  glorious  torrid  zone, 
lying  beyond  three  o'clock  in  the  morning) ;  and  reminds  the 
"  unco  righteous"  for  ever,  that  virtue,  false  or  true,  is  not  incom- 
patible with  the  recreations  of  "  cakes  and  ale."  Shakspeare  is 
said  to  have  died  of  getting  out  of  a  sick-bed  to  entertain  his 
friends  Drayton  and  Ben  Jonson,  visitors  from  London.  He 
might  have  died  a  later  and  a  graver  death,  but  he  could  not  well 
have  had  one  more  genial,  and  therefore  more  poetical.  Far  was 
it  from  dishonoring  the  eulogizer  of  "good  men's  feasts;"  the 
recorder  of  the  noble  friends  Antonio  and  Bassanio ;  the  great 
thorough-going  humanist,  who  did  equal  justice  to  the  gravest 
and  the  gayest  moments  of  life. 

It  is  a  remarkable  proof  of  the  geniality  of  Shakspeare's  jest- 
ing, that  even  its  abundance  of  ideas  does  not  spoil  it ;  for,  in 
comedy  as  well  as  tragedy,  he  is  the  most  reflective  of  writers. 
I  know  but  of  one  that  comes  near  him  in  this  respect;  and  very 
near  him  (I  dare  to  affirm)  he  does  come,  though  he  has  none  of 
his  poetry,  properly  so  called.  It  is  Sterne  ;  in  whose  Tristram 
Shandy  there  is  not  a  word  without  meaning,— often  of  the  pro- 
foundest  as  well  as  kindliest  sort.  The  professed  fools  of  Shak- 
speare are  among  the  wisest  of  men.  They  talk  iEsop  and 
Solomon  in  every  jest.  Yet  they  amuse  as  much  as  they  in- 
struct us.  The  braggart  Parolles,  whose  name  signifies  words, 
as  though  he  spoke  nothing  else,  scarcely  utters  a  sentence  that 
is  not  rich  with  ideas ;  yet  his  weakness  and  self-committals 
hang  over  them  all  like  a  sneaking  infection,  and  hinder  our 
laughter  from  becoming  respectful.  The  scene  in  which  he 
is  taken  blindfold  among  his  old  acquaintances,  and  so  led  to 


SHAKSPEARE.  m 


vilify  their  characters,  under  the  impression  that  he  is  gratifying 
their  enemies,  is  almost  as  good  as  the  screen-scene  in  the  School 
for  Scandal. 

I  regret  that  I  can  give  nothing  of  it  in  this  volume,  nor  even 
of  FalstaiT,  and  Sir  Toby,  nor  Benedick,  nor  Autolycus,  &c.,  &c., 
almost  all  the  most  laughable  comedies  of  Shakspeare  being  writ- 
ten in  prose.  But  if  it  could  have  been  given,  how  should  I 
have  found  room  for  anything  else  ?  The  confinement  to  verse 
luckily  does  not  exclude  some  entertaining  specimens  both  of  his 
humor  and  wit. 


THE  COXCOMB.' 

Hotspur  gives  an  account  of  a  noble  coxcomb,  who  pestered  him  at  an 

unseasonable  moment. 

Hotspur.  My  liege,  I  did  deny  no  prisoners. 
But,  I  remember,  when  the  fight  was  done, 
When  I  was  dry  with  rage  and  extreme  toil, 
Breathless  and  faint,  leaning  upon  my  sword, 
Came  there  a  certain  lord,  neat,  trimly  dress'd, 
Fresh  as  a  bridegroom  ;  and  his  chin,  new  reap'd, 
Show'd  like  a  stubble-land  at  harvest  home ; 
He  was  perfumed  like  a  milliner  : 
j?«<Z  'twixt  his  finger  and  his  thumb  he  held 
A  pouncet-box,  which  ever  and  anon 
He  gave  his  nose,  and  took  't  away  again  ; — 
Who,  therewith  angry,  when  it  next  came  there. 
Took  it  in  snuff' ;2 — and  still  he  smil'd  and  talked: 
And,  as  the  soldiers  bore  dead  bodies  by. 
He  called  them— untaught  knaves,  unmannerly, 
To  bring  a  slovenly  unhandsome  corse 
Betwixt  the  wind  and  his  nobility. 
With  many  holiday  and  lady  terms 
.  He  questioned  me ;  among  the  rest  demanded 
My  prisoners,  in  your  Majesty's  behalf. 
I  then,  all  smarting,  with  my  wounds  being  cold, 
To  be  so  pestered  with  a  popinjay. 
Out  of  my  grief  and  my  impatience, 
Answer'd  neglectingly,  I  know  not  what; 


88  SHAKSPEARE. 


He  should,  or  he  should  not ; — for  he  made  me  mad, 

To  see  him  shine  so  brisk,  and  smell  so  sweet, 

And  talk  so  like  a  waiting  gentlewoman. 

Of  guns,  and  drums,  and  wounds  {God save  the  mark.'). 

And  telling  me,  the  sovereign'st  thing  on  earth 

Was  parmaceti,  for  an  inward  bruise ; 

And  that  it  was  great  pity,  so  it  was. 

That  villainous  saltpetre  should  be  digg'd 

Out  of  the  bowels  of  the  harmless  earth. 

Which  many  a  good  tall  fellow  had  destroy'd 

So  cowardly  ;  and,  but  for  these  vile  guns. 

He  would  himself  have  been  a  soldier. 

This  bald  unjointed  chat  of  his,  my  lord, 

I  answer'd  indirectly,  as  I  said  ; 

And,  I  beseech  you,  let  not  his  report 

Come  current  for  an  accusation. 

Betwixt  my  love  and  your  high  majesty. 

1  "  The  Coxcomb."— One  fancies  an  ancient  Brummell  described 
in  this  picture,  and  is  led  to  give  Hotspur's  contemptuous  mimiciy 
a  corresponding  tone  of  voice,  and  doubtless  with  propriety.  For 
coxcombry,  like  greater  qualities,  is  the  same  in  all  ages, — a 
compound  affectation  of  exquisiteness,  indifference,  and  hollow 
superiority.  Hotspur's  nobleman,  Rochester's  Jack  Hewitt, 
Etheredge's  Flutter,  Vanbrugh's  Lord  Foppington,  Pope's  Sir 
Plume,  &c.,  &c.,  down  to  Brummell  himself,  all,  we  may  rest 
assured,  spoke  in  the  same  instinctive  tone  of  voice,  fleeting 
modes  apart. 

2  "  Took  it  in  snuff." — A  pun  ;  meaning,  in  the  phraseology  of 
the  time,  in  dudgeon.  But  the  pettiest  of  figures  of  speech  ac- 
quires here  a  singular  force  of  propriety,  from  its  conveyance  of 
contempt. 


UNWITTING  SELF-CRIMINATION. 

In  this  pleasant  specimen  of  the  way  in  which  a  complainant 
may  be  led  into  self-committals  by  the  apparent  good  faith  of 
leading  questions,  I  have  stopped  short  of  the  lecture  which  the 
Abbess  proceeds  to  give  the  wife.     The  remark  with  which  she 


SHAKSPEARE.  S9 


commences  it,  includes  the  whole  spirit  of  it  in  one  epigram- 
matic sentence.  The  passage  is  in  the  Comedy  of  Errors ;  a 
play,  I  think,  which  would  be  more  admired,  if  readers  were  to 
give  its  perplexities  a  little  closer  attention. 

Enter  the  Abbess. 

Abb.  Be  quiet,  people.     Wherefore  throng  you  hither  ? 

Adriana.  To  fetch  my  poor  distracted  husband  hence. 
Let  us  come  in,  that  we  may  bind  him  fast. 
And  bear  him  home  for  his  recovery. 

Angela.  I  knew  he  was  not  in  his  perfect  wits. 

Merchant.  I  am  sorry  now  that  I  did  draw  on  him. 

Abb.  How  long  hath  this  possession  held  the  man? 

Adr.  This  week  he  hath  been  heavy,  soiir,  sad, 
And  much,  much  different  from  the  man  he  was  ; 
But,  till  this  afternoon,  his  passion 
Ne'er  brake  into  extremity  of  rage. 

Abb.  Hath  he  not  lost  much  wealth  by  wreck  at  sea  ? 
Buried  some  dear  friend  ?     Hath  not  else  his  eye 
Stray'd  his  affection  in  unlawful  love  .' 
A  sin  prevailing  much  in  youthful  men, 
Who  give  their  eyes  the  liberty  of  gazing. 
Which  of  these  sorrows  is  he  subject  to  .' 

Adr.  To  none  of  these,  except  it  be  the  last ;  , 

Namely,  some  love,  that  drew  him  oft  from  home. 

Abb.  You  should  for  that  have  reprehended  him. 

Adr.  Why,  so  I  did. 

Mb.  Ay,  but  not  rough  enough. 

Adr.  As  roughly  as  my  modesty  would  let  me. 

Abb.  Haply  in  private. 

Adr.  And  in  assemblies  too. 

Abb.  Ay,  but  not  enough. 

Adr.  It  was  the  copy  of  our  conference  : 
In  bed,  he  slept  not  for  my  urging  it ; 
At  board,  he  fed  not  for  my  urging  it ; 
Alone,  it  was  the  subject  of  my  theme ; 
In  company,  I  often  glanc'd  at  it  ; 
Still  did  I  tell  him  it  was  vile  and  bad. 

Abb.  And  therefore  ca7ne  it  that  the  man  was  mad. 


THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 
All  the  scenes,  actual  or  implied,  in  which  the  Shrew  under- 


90  SHAKSPEARE. 


goes  her  course  of  taming,  are  brought  together  in  these  extracts ; 
so  that,  as  in  the  instance  of  the  Fairy  Drama,  selected  from  the 
Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  in  the  volume  entitled  Imagination 
and  Fancy,  they  present  a  little  play  of  themselves. 

The  Taming  of  the  Shrew,  for  its  extravagance,  ought  rather 
to  be  called  a  farce  than  a  comedy  ;  but  it  is  none  the  worse  for 
that.  A  farce,  in  five  acts,  full  of  genius,  may  stand  above  a 
thousand  comedies.  The  spirit  of  comedy  is  in  it,  with  some- 
thing more.  Several  of  Moliere's  comedies  are  farces ;  and  so 
are  those  of  Aristophanes.  People  whose  will  and  folly  are 
generally  in  such  equal  portions  as  those  of  shrews,  may  be 
frightened  and  kept  down  by  wills  equal  to  their  own,  accompa- 
nied with  greater  understandings  ;  but  they  are  not  to  be  tamed 
in  the  course  of  two  or  three  weeks,  even  supposing  them  to  be 
tameable  at  all,  or  by  anything  short  of  the  severest  rebukes  of 
fortune.  Shakspeare  knew  this,  and  has  poetized  his  farce  and 
put  it  in  verse,  the  better  to  carry  off  the  high  and  jovial  fancy 
of  Petruchio  ;  who,  it  must  be  allowed,  was  the  man  to  succeed 
in  his  project,  if  ever  man  could.  He  is  a  fine,  hearty  compound 
of  bodily  and  mental  vigor,  adorned  by  wit,  spirits,  and  good  na- 
ture. He  does  not  marry  Katharine  merely  for  her  dowry.  He 
likes  also  her  pretty  face ;  and,  in  the  gaiety  of  his  animal  spirits, 
he  seems  to  have  persuaded  himself,  that  one  pretty  woman  is  as 
good  as  another,  provided  she  be  put  into  a  comfortable  state  of 
subjection  by  a  good  husband. 

Let  the  reader,  however,  note  the  concluding  line  of  the  play. 
I  think  Shakspeare  meant  to  intimate  by  it,  that  even  the  gallant 
Petruchio  would  find  his  victory  not  so  complete  as  he  fancied. 


Scene,  in  front  of  the  house  of  the  Bride's  father,  Baptista. 

Enter  Baptista,  Gremio,  Tranio,  Katharina,  Bianca,  Lucen- 
Tio,  and  Attendants. 

Baptista.  Signior  Lucentio  [to  Tranio],  this  is  the  'pointed  day 
That  Katharine  and  Petruchio  should  be  married. 
And  yet  we  hear  not  of  our  son-in-law  : 


SHAKSPEARE.  91 


What  will  be  said  ?     What  mockery  will  it  be, 
To  want  the  bridegroom,  when  the  priest  attends 
To  speak  the  ceremonial  rites  of  marriage  ? 
What  says  Lucentio  to  this  shame  of  ours  ? 

Katharine.  No  shame  but  mine  :  I  must,  forsooth,  be  forc'd 
To  give  my  hand,  oppos'd  against  my  heart,  ■< 

Unto  a  mad-brain'd  rudesby,  full  of  spleen  ; 
Who  woo'd  in  haste,  and  means  to  wed  at  leisure. 
I  told  you,  I,  he  was  a  frantic  fool, 
Hiding  his  bitter  jests  in  blunt  behavior  ; 
And,  to  be  noted  for  a  merry  man, 
He'll  woo  a  thousand,  'point  the  day  of  marriage. 
Make  friends,  invite,  yes,  and  proclaim  the  banns ; 
Yet  never  means  to  wed  where  he  hath  woo'd. 
Now  must  the  world  point  at  poor  Katharine, 
And  say, — "  Lo,  there  is  mad  Petruchio's  wife, 
If  it  would  please  him  come  and  marry  her." 

Tranio.  Patience,  good  Katharine,  and  Baptista  too  ; 
Upon  my  life,  Petruchio  means  but  well, 
Whatever  fortune  stays  him  from  his  word. 
Though  he  be  blunt,  I  know  him  passing  wise ; 
Though  he  be  merry,  yet  withal  he's  honest. 

Kath.  'Would  Katharine  had  never  seen  him  though  ! 

[Exit,  weeping,  followed  by  Bianca  and  others. 

Bap.  Go,  girl ;  I  cannot  blame  thee  now  to  weep  ; 
For  such  an  injury  would  vex  a  saint. 
Much  more  a  shrew  of  thy  impatient  humor. 

Enter  Biondello. 

Bion.  Master,  master  !  News,  old  news,  and  such  news  as  you  never 
heard  of. 

Bap.  Is  it  new  and  old  too  ?  how  may  that  be  ? 

Bion.  Why,  is  it  not  news  to  hear  of  Petruchio's  coming  .' 

Bap.  Is  he  come  ? 

Bion.  Why,  no,  sir. 

Bap.  What  then  ? 

Bion.  He  is  coming. 

Bap.  When  will  he  be  here  .' 

Bion.  When  he  stands  where  I  am,  and  sees  you  there. 

Tra.  But  say,  what : — To  thine  old  news. 

Bion.  Why,  Petruchio  is  coming,  in  a  new  hat  and  an  old  jerkin;  a  pair 
of  old  breeches,  thrice  turned  ;  a  pair  of  boots  that  have  been  candle-cases, 
one  buckled  and  another  laced  ;  an  old  rusty  sword  ta'en  out  of  the  Uv;\\ 
armory,  with  a  broken  hilt,  and  chapeless  ;*  with  two  broken  points  ;t  his 

•  Chapeless,  without  a  catch  to  hold  it.  t  Points,  tag.-;. 


92  SHAKSPEARE. 


horse  hipped'  with  an  old  mothy  saddle,  the  stirrups  of  no  kindred ;  be- 
sides, possessed  with  the  glanders,  and  like  to  mose  in  the  chine  ;  troubled 
with  the  lampass,*  infected  with  the  fashions, f  full  of  wind-galls,  sped 
with  spavins,  raied  with  the  yellows,  past  cure  of  the  fives,  stark  spoiled 
with  the  staggers,  begnawn  with  the  bots ;  swayed  in  the  back,  and  shoul- 
der-shotten  ;  ne'er-legged  before  ;  and  with  a  half-checked  bit,  and  a  head- 
stall of  sheep's  leather  ;  which,  being  restrained  to  keep  him  from  stum- 
bling, hath  been  often  burst,  and  now  repaired  with  knots :  one  girth  six 
times  pierced,  and  a  woman's  crupper  of  velure,  which  hath  two  letters  for 
her  name,  fairly  set  down  in  studs,  and  here  and  there  pieced  with  pack- 
thread.' 

Baj).  Who  comes  vrith  him  ? 

Bion.  0,  sir,  his  lackey,  for  all  the  world  caparisoned  like  the  horse ; 
with  a  linen  stock  on  one  leg,  and  a  kersey  boot-hose  on  the  other,  gartered 
with  a  red  and  blue  list;  and  old  hat  and  The  Humor  of  Forty  Fancies^ 
pricked  in't  for  a  feather  :  a  monster,  a  very  monster  in  apparel ;  and  not 
like  a  Christian  foot-boy,  or  a  gentleman's  lackey. 

Tra.  'Tissome  odd  humor  pricks  him  to  this  fashion  ! — 
Yet  oftentimes  he  goes  but  mean  apparell'd. 

4;  4:  :t:  *  *  :^ 

Enter  Petruchig  and  Grumio. 

Pet.  Come,  where  be  these  gallants  ?  who  is  at  home  ? 

Bap.  You  are  welcome,  sir. 

Pet.  Where  is  my  lovely  bride  ? 

How  does  my  father  .'     Gentles,  methinks  you  frown  : 
And  wherefore  gaze  this  goodly  company, 
As  if  they  saw  some  wondrous  monument, 
Some  comet,  or  unusual  prodigy  ? 

Bap.  Why,  sir,  you  know  this  is  your  wedding-day  : 
First  were  we  sad,  fearing  you  would  not  come  ; 
Now  sadder,  that  you  come  so  unprovided. 
Fye  !  doff  this  habit,  shame  to  your  estate. 
An  eye-sore  to  our  solemn  festival. 

Tra.  And  tell  us,  what  occasion  of  import 
Hath  all  so  long  detain'd  you  from  your  wife. 
And  sent  you  hither  so  unlike  yourself  ? 

Pet.  Tedious  it  were  to  tell,  and  harsh  to  hear ; 
Sufficeth,  I  am  come  to  keep  my  word. 
Though  in  some  part  enforced  to  disgress,§ 
Which,  at  more  leisure,  I  will  so  excuse 

*  Lampass,  a  lump  in  the  mouth. 

t    The  fashions,  the  farcy,  a  species  of  leprosy. 

t   The  Humor  of  Forty  Fancies,  supposed  to  be  a  collectior.  of  songs. 

§  Disgress,  deviate  from  the  ordinary  course. 


SHAKSPEARE.  93 


As  you  shall  well  be  satisfied  withal. 

But  where  is  Kate  ?     I  stay  too  long  from  her  ; 

The  morning  wears,  'tis  time  we  were  at  church. 

Tra.  See  not  your  bride  in  these  unreverent  robes  : 
Go  to  my  chamber,  put  on  clothes  of  mine. 

Pet.  Not  I,  believe  me  ;  thus  I'll  visit  her. 

Bap.  But  thus,  I  trust,  you  will  not  marry  her. 

Pet.  Good  sooth,  even  thus  ;  therefore  have  done  with  words; 
To  me  she's  married,  not  unto  my  clothes. 
Could  I  repair  what  she  will  wear  in  me, 
As  I  can  change  these  poor  accoutrements, 
'Twere  well  for  Kate,  and  better  for  myself. 
But  what  a  fool  am  I  to  chat  with  you,  : 

When  I  should  bid  good-morrow  to  my  bride, 
And  seal  the  title  with  a  lovely  kiss  .' 

[Exeunt  Petruchio,  Grumio,  and  BioivDELiiO. 

Tra.  He  hath  some  meaning  in  his  mad  attire. 
We  will  persuade  him,  be  it  possible. 
To  put  on  better  ere  he  go  to  church. 

Bap.  I'll  after  him,  and  see  the  event  of  this.  [Exit. 

The  rest  discourse  of  other  matters,  and  then  follow  Baptista. 
The  wedding  ensues ;  the  particulars  of  which  are  thus  gathered 
from  one  of  the  persons  present : — 

Enter  Grzmio, 

Tranio.  Signior  Grcmio  !  come  you  from  church  ? 

Gre.  As  willingly  as  e'er  I  came  from  school. 

Tra.  And  is  the  bride  and  bridegroom  coming  home  ? 

Gre.  A  bridegroom,  say  you  ?  'tis  a  groom,  indeed, 
A  grumbling  groom,  and  that  the  girl  shall  find. 

Tra.  Curster  than  she  .'  why,  'tis  impossible. 

Gre.  Why,  he's  a  devil,  a  devil,  a  very  fiend. 

Tra.  Why,  she's  a  devil,  a  devil,  the  devil's  dam. 

Gre.  Tut !  she's  a  lamb,  a  dove,  a  fool  to  him. 
I'll  tell  you.  Sir  Lucentio  :  When  the  priest 
Should  ask,  if  Katharine  should  be  his  wife, 
^?y,  by  gogs-wouns,  quoth  he  ;  and  swore  so  loud. 
That,  all  amaz'd,  the  priest  let  fall  the  book  ; 
And,  as  he  stoop'd  again  to  take  it  up, 
T7ie  mad-brained  bridegroom  took  him  such  a  cuff. 
That  down  fell  priext  and  book,  and  book  and  priest  : 
"  Now  take  them  up,"  quoth  he,  "  if  any  list." 

Tra.  What  said  the  wench,  when  he  arose  again  ? 


94  SHAKSPEARE. 


Gre.  Trembled  and  shook;  for  why,  he  stamp'd  and  swore. 
As  if  the  vicar  meant  to  cozen  him. 
But  after  many  ceremonies  done, 
He  calls  for  wine  :  "  A  health;^  quoth  he  ;  as  if 
He  had  been  aboard  carousing  to  his  mates 
After  a  storm  ;  quaffed  off  the  muscadel, 
And  threw  the  sops  all  in  the  sexton's  face  ; 
Having  no  other  reason, 
But  that  his  beard  grew  thin  and  hungerly. 
And  seem'd  to  ask  him  sops  as  he  was  drinking. 
This  done,  he  took  the  bride  about  the  neck, 
And  kiss'd  her  lips  with  such  a  clamorous  smack, 
That,  at  the  parting,  all  the  church  did  echo. 
I,  seeing  this,  came  thence  for  very  shame  ; 
And  after  me,  I  know,  the  rout  is  coming  : 
Such  a  mad  marriage  never  was  before ; 
Hark,  hark  !  I  hear  the  minstrels  play.  \_Mmic 

Enter  Petruchio,  Katharina,  Bianca,  Baptista,  Hortensio, 
Grtjmio,  and  Train. 

Pet.  Gentlemen  and  friends,  I  thank  you  for  your  pains : 
I  know  you  think  to  dine  with  me  to-day. 
And  have  prepar'd  great  store  of  wedding  cheer  : 
But  so  it  is,  my  haste  must  call  me  hence, 
And  therefore  here  I  mean  to  take  my  leave. 

Bap.  Is't  possible  you  will  away  to-night .' 

Pet.  I  must  away  to-day,  before  night  come  ;— 
Make  it  no  wonder ; — if  you  knew  my  business, 
You  would  entreat  me  rather  go  than  stay. 
And,  honest  company,  I  thank  you  all, 
That  have  beheld  me  give  away  myself 
To  this  most  patient,  sweet,  and  virtuous  wife. 
Dine  with  my  father,  drink  a  health  to  me  ; 
For  I  must  hence,  and  farewell  to  you  all. 

Tra.  Let  us  entreat  you  stay  till  after  dinner. 

Pet.  It  may  not  be. 

Gre.  Let  me  entreat  you. 

Pet.  It  cannot  be. 

Kath.  Let  me  entreat  you. 

Pet.  I  am  content. 

Kath.  Are  you  content  to  stay  ? 

Pet.  I  am  content  you  shall  entreat  me  stay  ; 
But  yet  not  stay,  entreat  me  how  you  can. 

Kath.  JVow,  if  you  love  me,  stay. 

Pet.  Grumio,  my  horses. 


SHAKSPEARE.  OS 


Gru.  Ay,  sir,  they  be  ready ;  the  oats  have  eaten  the  horses. 

Kath.  Nay,  then. 
Do  what  thou  canst,  I  will  not  go  to-day  ; 
No,  nor  to-morrow,  nor  till  I  please  myself. 
The  door  is  open,  sir,  there  lies  your  way, 
You  may  be  joggmg  ichile  your  boots  are  green  ; 
For  mo,  I'll  not  be  gone,  till  I  please  myself: — 
*Tis  like  you'll  prove  a  jolly  surly  groom, 
That  take  it  on  you  at  the  first  so  roundly. 

Pet.  O,  Kate,  content  thee,  pr'ythee,  be  not  angry. 

Kath.  I  will  be  angry  ;  What  hast  thou  to  do  ? 
Father,  be  quiet ;  he  shall  stay  my  leisure. 

Gre.  Ay,  marry,  sir,  now  it  begins  to  work. 

Kath.  Gentlemen,  forward  to  the  bridal  dinner : 
I  see  a  woman  may  be  made  a  fool, 
If  she  had  not  a  spirit  to  resist. 

Pet.  Tliey  shall  go  forward,  Kate,  at  thy  command: 
Obey  the  bride,  you  that  attend  on  her : 
Go  to  the  feast,  revel  and  domineer. 
Be  mad  and  merry, — or  go  hang  yourselves ; 
But  for  my  bonny  Kate,  she  must  with  me. 
Nay,  look  not  big,  nor  stamp,  nor  stare,  nor  fret  •, 
I  will  be  master  of  what  is  mine  own  : 
She  is  my  goods,  my  chattels  ;  she  is  my  house. 
My  household  stuff,  my  field,  my  barn. 
My  horse,  my  o-r,  my  ass,  my  anything  ; 
And  here  she  stands,  toucli  her  whoever  dare; 
I'll  bring  my  action  on  the  proudest  he 
That  stops  my  way  in  Padua. — Grumio, 
Draw  forth  thy  weapon,  we're  beset  with  thieves; 
Rescue  thy  mistress,  if  thou  be  a  man  : — 
Fear  not,  sweet  wench,  they  shall  not  touch  thee,  Kate  , 
I'll  buckler  thee  against  a  million. 

^Exeunt  Petruchio,  Katharina,  and  Grumio. 

Bap.  Nay,  let  them  go,  a  couple  of  quiet  ones  ! 

Gre.  Went  they  not  quickly,  I  should  die  with  laughing 

Tra.  Of  all  mad  matches,  never  was  the  like  ! 


Scene. — A  Hall  in  Petruchid's  Country  House. 
Enter  Grumio. 

Gru.  Fye,  fye  on  all  tired  jades  !  on  all  mad  masters  !  and  all  foui  ways  ! 
Was  ever  man  so  beaten  ?  was  ever  man  so  rayed  ?*  was  ever  man  so  weary  .' 


Bayed,  bewrayed,  bemired. 


96  SHAKSPEARE. 


I  am  sent  before  to  make  a  fire,  and  they  are  coming  after  to  warm  them. 
Now,  were  not  I  a  little  pot,  and  soon  hot,  my  very  lips  might  freeze  to  my 
teeth,  ere  I  should  come  by  a  fire  to  thaw  me.     Holla!  hoa!  Curtis. 

Curt.  Who  is  that,  calls  so  coldly  .' 

Gru.  A  piece  of  ice.  If  thou  doubt  it,  thou  may'st  slide  from  my 
shoulder  to  my  heel,  with  no  greater  run  but  my  head  and  my  neck.  A 
fire,  good  Curtis. 

Curt.  Is  my  master  and  his  wife  coming,  Grumio  ? 

Gru.  O,  ay,  Curtis,  ay,  and  therefore  fire,  fire  ;  cast  on  no  water. 

Curt.  Is  she  so  hot  a  shrew  as  she's  reported  .' 

Gru.  She  was,  good  Curtis,  before  this  frost :  but  thou  knowest,  winter 
tames  man,  woman  and  beast ;  for  it  hath  tamed  my  old  master,  and  my  new 
mistress,  and  myself,  fellow  Curtis. We  came  down  a  foul  hill,  my  mas- 
ter riding  behind  my  mistress. 

Curt.  Both  on  one  horse  .■' 

Gru.  What's  that  to  thee  .' 

Curt.  Why,  a  horse. 

Gru.  Tell  thou  the  tale. — But  had'st  thou  not  crossed  me,  thou  should'st 
have  heard  how  her  horse  fell,  and  she  under  her  horse ;  thou  should'st 
have  heard,  in  how  miry  a  place  :  how  she  was  bomoiled ,  how  he  left  her 
with  the  horse  upon  her ;  how  he  beat  me  because  her  horse  stumbled  ;  how 
she  waded  through  the  dirt  to  pluck  him  of!  me ;  how  he  swore  ;  how  she 
prayed — that  never  prayed  before ;  how  I  cried ;  how  the  horses  ran  away, 
how  her  bridle  was  burst,  how  I  lost  my  crupper; — with  many  things  of 
worthy  memory  which  now  shall  die  in  oblivion,  and  thou  return  inex- 
perienced to  thy  grave. 

Curt.  By  this  reckoning,  he  is  more  shrew  than  she. 

Gru.  Ay,  and  that  thou  and  the  proudest  of  you  all  shall  find,  when 
he silence  ! 1  hear  my  master. 

Enter  Petruchio  aiid  Katharina. 

Pet.  Where  be  these  knaves  ?     What,  no  man  at  the  door. 
To  hold  my  stirrup,  nor  to  take  my  horse  ! 
Where  is  Nathaniel,  Gregory,  Philip  .' 

All  Serv.  Here,  sir ; 

Here,  sir. 

Pet.  Here,  sir !  here,  sir  !  here,  sir  !  here,  sir  ! — 
You  logger-headed  and  unpolish'd  grooms  ! 
What,  no  attendance  .'  no  regard  f  no  duty  .' — 
Where  is  the  foolish  knave  I  sent  before? 

Gru.  Here,  sir ;  as  foolish  as  I  was  before. 

Pet.  You  peasant  swain  ! 
Did  I  not  bid  thee  meet  me  in  the  park. 
And  bring  along  these  rascal  knaves  with  thee? 

Gru.  Nathaniel's  coat,  sir,  was  not  fully  made, 


SHAKSPEARE.  97 


And  Gabriel's  pumps  were  all  unpink'd  i'  the  heel ; 
There  was  no  link  to  color  Peter's  hat. 
And  AValter's  dagger  was  not  come  from  sheathing  : 
There  were  none  fine,  but  Adam,  Ralph,  and  Gregory; 
The  rest  were  ragged,  old,  and  beggarly  ; 
Yet,  as  they  are,  here  are  they  come  to  meet  you. 
Pet.  Go,  rascals,  go,  and  fetch  my  supper  in. — 

lExeunt  some  of  the  Servants. 
"  Where  is  the  life  that  late  I  led"—  [  Sings. 

Where  are  those Sit  down,  Kate,  and  welcome. 

Soud, scud,  soud,  soud  !* 

Re-enter  S%B.v ANTS,  with  supper. 

Why,  when,  I  say  ? — ^''ay,  good  sweet  Kate,  be  merry. 
Off  with  my  boots,  you  rogues,  you  villains ;  when  .' 

"  It  was  the  friar  of  orders  grey  [  Sings. 

As  he  forth  walked  on  his  way : — " 

Out,  out,  you  rogue  !     You  pluck  my  foot  awry : 

Take  that,  and  mend  the  plucking  off  the  other.  \_Strikes  him. 

Be  merry,  Kate : — Some  water  here  ;  what,  ho  ! 

Where's  my  spaniel  Troilus  .' — Sirrah,  get  you  hence. 

And  bid  my  cousin  Ferdinand  come  hither :  lExif  Serv. 

One,  Kate,  that  you  must  kiss,  and  be  acquainted  with. — 

Where  are  my  slippers  .' — Shall  I  have  some  water  .' 

[j2  bason  is  presented  to  him. 

Come,  Kate,  and  wash,  and  welcome  heartily 

[Servant  lets  the  ewer  fall. 
You  villain  !  will  you  let  it  fall .'  [Strikes  him. 

Kath.  Patience,  I  pray  you  ;  'twas  a  fault  unwilling. 

Pet.  A  beetle-headed,  flat-ear'd  knave  ! 
Come,  Kate,  sit  down  ;  I  know  you  have  a  stomach. 
Will  you  give  thanks,  sweet  Kate ;  or  else  shall  I  ? — 
What  is  this  .'  mutton  .' 

\st  Serv.  Ay. 

Pet.  Who  brought  it .' 

\st  Serv.  I. 

Pet.  'Tis  burnt,  and  so  is  all  the  meat: 
What  dogs  are  these  ?— Where  is  the  rascal  cook  ? 
How  durst  you,  villains,  bring  it  from  the  dresser, 
And  serve  it  thus  to  me  that  love  it  not  ? 
There,  take  it  to  you,  trencher,  cups,  and  all. 

[  Throws  the  meat,  Sfc,  about  the  stage 

•  Soud,  Soud,  an  exoression  of  heat  and  weariness. 

6 


98  SHAKSPEARE. 


You  heedless  joltheads  and  unmanner'd  slaves  ! 
What,  do  you  grumble  ?     I'll  be  with  you  straight. 

Kath.  I  pray  you,  husband,  be  not  so  disquiet; 
The  meat  was  well,  if  you  were  so  contented. 

Pet.  I  tell  thee,  Kate,  'twas  burnt  and  dried  away; 
And  I  expressly  am  forbid  to  touch  it. 
For  it  engenders  choler,  planteth  anger ; 
And  better  'twere  that  both  of  us  did  fast. 
Since,  of  ourselves,  ourselves  are  cholerick, — 
Than  feed  it  with  such  over-roasted  flesh. 
Be  patient ;  to-morrow  it  shall  be  mended, 
And,  for  this  night,  we'll  fast  for  company  : — 
Come,  I  will  bring  thee  to  thy  bridal  chamber. 

\^Exeunt  Petruchio,  Katharina,  and  Curtis. 

JVath.  (^advancing).  Peter,  didst  ever  see  the  like  ? 

Peter.  He  kills  her  in  her  own  humour. 

Re-enter  Curtis. 

Grum.  Where  is  he .' 

Curt.  In  her  chamber, 
Making  a  sermon  to  her. 

And  rails,  and  swears,  and  rates  ;  that  she,  poor  soul, 
Knows  not  which  way  to  stand,,  to  look,  to  speak  ; 
And  sits  as  one  new  risen  from  a  dream. 
Away,  away  !  for  he  is  coming  hither.  \_Exeunt. 

Re-enter  Petruchio. 

Pet.  Thus  have  I  politickly  begun  my  reign. 
And  'tis  my  hope  to  end  successfully. 
My  falcon  now  is  sharp,  and  passing  empty ; 
And,  till  she  stoop,  she  must  not  be  full-gorg'd. 
For  then  she  never  looks  upon  her  lure. 
Another  way  I  have  to  man  my  haggard,* 
To  make  her  come,  and  know  her  keeper's  call, 
That  is, — to  watch  her,  as  we  watch  the  kites 
That  bate,t  and  beat,  and  will  not  be  obedient. 
She  eat  no  meat  to-day,  nor  none  shall  cat ; 
Last  night  she  slept  not,  nor  to-night  she  shall  not ; 
As  with  the  meat,  so77ie  undeserved  fault 
I'll  find  about  the  making  of  the  bed  ; 
^ind  here  F II  fling  the  pillow,  there  ike  bolster. 
This  way  the  coverlet,  another  way  the  sheets : — 

•  To  tame  my  wild  hawk.  f  Bate,  flutter. 


SHAKSPEARE.  99 


Ay,  and  amid  this  hurly,  I  intend 

That  all  is  done  in  reverend  care  of  her : 

And,  in-conclusion,  she  shall  watch  all  night: 

And,  if  she  chance  to  nod,  I'll  rail  and  brawl, 

And  with  the  clamor  keep  her  still  awake. 

This  is  the  way  to  kill  a  wife  with  kindness  ; 

And  thus  I'll  curb  her  mad  and  headstrong  humour. — 

He  that  knows  better  how  to  tame  a  shrew. 

Now  let  him  speak  ;  'tis  charity  to  shew.  [Exit 


Scene,  a  Room  i?i  the  same  House. 
Enter  Katharina  and  Grttmio. 

Gru.  No,  no  ;  forsooth,  I  dare  not,  for  my  life. 

Kath.  The  more  my  wrong,  the  more  his  spite  appears  : 
What,  did  he  marry  me  to  famish  me  ? 
Beggars  that  come  unto  my  father's  door. 
Upon  entreaty,  have  a  present  alms ; 
If  not,  elsewhere  they  meet  with  charity  : 
But  I, — who  never  knew  how  to  entreat, — 
Am  starv'd  for  meat,  giddy  for  lack  of  sleep : 
With  oaths  kept  waking,  and  with  brawling  fed  : 
And  that  tchich  spites  me  more  than  all  these  wants. 
He  does  it  under  name  of  perfect  love  ; 
As  who  should  say, — if  J  should  sleep,  or  eat, 
'Twere  deadly  sickness,  or  else  present  death. 
I  pr'ythee  go  and  get  me  some  repast, 
I  care  not  what,  so  it  be  wholesome  food. 

Gru.    H^hat  say  you  to  a  neafs  foot  7 

Kath.  '  Tis  passing  good  :  I  pr'ythee  let  tne  have  it. 

Gru    I  fear  it  is  too  cholerick  a  meat : 
How  say  you  to  a  fat  tripe,  finely  broiled  ? 

Kath.  1  like  it  well ;  good  Grumio,  fetch  it  me. 

Gru.  I  cannot  tell ;  I  fear,  'tis  cholerick. 
What  say  you  to  a  piece  of  beef  and  mustard  ? 

Kath.  A  dish  that  I  do  love  to  feed  upon. 

Gru.  Ay,  but  the  mustard  is  too  hot  a  little. 

Kath.    Why,  then  the  beef,  and  let  the  mustard  rest. 

Gru.  JVay,  then  I  will  not ;  you  shall  have  the  mustard. 
Or  else  you  get  no  beef  of  Grumio. 

Kath.    Then  loth,  or  one,  or  anything  thou  wilt. 

Gru.    Why  then  the  77iustard  without  the  beef. 

Kath    Go,  get  thee  gone,  thou  false  deluding  slave, 
Thatfeed'st  me  with  the  very  name  of  meat :  [Beats  him. 


100  SHAKSPEARE. 


Sorrow  on  thee,  and  all  the  pack  of  you, 
That  triumph  thus  upon  my  misery  ! 
Go,  get  thee  gone,  I  say. 

Enter  Petruchio,  with  a  dish  of  meat,  and  Hortensio. 

Pet.  How  fares  my  Kate  ?     What,  sweeting,  all  amort?* 

Hor.  Mistress,  what  cheer  ? 

Kath.  'Faith,  as  cold  as  can  be. 

Pet.  Pluck  up  thy  spirits ;  look  cheerfully  upon  me. 
Here,  love  ;  thou  see'st  how  diligent  I  am. 

To  dress  thy  meat  myself,  and  bring  it  thee.  \_Sets  the  dish  on  a  table. 

I'm  sure,  sweet  Kate,  this  kindness  merits  thanks. 
What,  not  a  word  ?     Nay,  then,  thou  lov'st  it  not ; 
And  all  my  pains  is  sorted  to  no  proof : — 
Here,  take  away  this  dish. 

Kath.  Pray  you,  let  it  stand. 

Pet.  The  poorest  service  is  repaid  with  thanks ; 
And  so  shall  mine,  before  you  touch  the  meat. 

Kath.  I  thank  you,  sir. 

Hor.  Signior  Petruchio,  fye  !  you  are  to  blame  ! 
Come,  Mistress  Kate,  I'll  bear  you  company. 

Pet.  {aside  to  Hortensio).     Eat  it  up  all,  Hortensio,  if  thou  lov'st 
me. — 
{Aloud  to  Katharina.)     Much  good  do  it  unto  thy  gentle  heart ! 
Kate,  eat  apace  : — and  now,  my  honey  love. 
Will  we  return  unto  thy  father's  house  ; 
And  revel  it  as  bravely  as  the  best. 
With  silken  coats,  and  caps,  and  golden  rings. 
With  ruffs,  and  cuffs,  and  farthingales,  and  things ; 
With  scarfs,  and  fans,  and  double  change  of  bravery, 
With  amber  bracelets,  beads,  and  all  this  knavery. 
What,  hast  thou  din'd  .'     The  tailor  stays  thy  leisure. 
To  deck  thy  body  with  his  ruffling  treasure. 

Enter  Tailor. 
Come,  tailor,  let  us  see  these  ornaments ; 

Enter  Haberdasher. 

Lay  forth  the  gown. — What  news  with  you,  sir  ?. 

Hab.  Here  is  the  cap  your  worship  did  bespeak. 

Pet.   Why,  this  was  moulded  on  a  porringer  ! 
A  velvet  dish  ; — fye,  fye  ! 
Why,  'tis  a  cockle,  or  a  walnutshell, 

*  Dead  in  spirit. 


SHAKSPEARE.  101 


A  knack,  a  toy,  a  trick,  a  baby's  cap  ; 
Away  with  it;  come,  let  me  have  a  bigger, 

Kath.  I'll  have  no  bigger  ;  this  doth  fit  the  time, 
And  gentlewomen  wear  such  caps  as  these. 

Pet.  When  you  are  gentle,  you  shall  have  one  too, 
And  not  till  then. 

Hor.  {aside).         That  will  not  be  in  haste. 

Kath.  Why,  sir,  I  trust,  I  may  have  leave  to  speak  ; 
And  speak  I  will ;  I  am  no  child,  no  babe : 
Your  betters  have  endured  me  say  my  mind ; 
And,  if  you  cannot,  best  you  stop  your  ears. 
My  tongue  will  tell  the  anger  of  my  heart ; 
Or  else,  my  heart,  concealing  it,  will  break  ; 
And,  rather  than  it  shall,  I  will  be  free 
Even  to  the  uttermost,  as  I  please,  in  words. 

Pet.    Why,  thou  say'st  true  ;  it  is  a  paltry  cap, 
A  custard-coffin,  a  bauble,  a  silken  pie  ; 
I  love  thee  well,  in  that  thou  lik'st  it  not. 

Kath.  Love  me,  or  love  me  not,  I  like  the  cap  :- 
And  it  I  will  have,  or  I  will  have  none. 

Pet.  Thy  gown  ?  why,  ay : — come,  tailor,  let  us  see't. 

0  mercy,  God  !  what  masking  stuff  is  here  ? 
What's  this  .'  a  sleeve  ?  'tis  like  a  demi-cannon : 
What !  up  and  down,  carv'd  like  an  apple-tart .' 
Here's  snip,  and  nip,  and  cut,  and  slish,  and  slash 
Like  to  a  censer  in  a  barber's  shop  : — 

Why,  what,  o'  devil's  name,  tailor,  call'st  thou  this  ? 

Hor.  I  see,  she's  like  to  have  neither  cap  nor  gown.  {Aside.) 

Tai.  You  bid  me  make  it  orderly  and  well, 
According  to  the  fashion  and  the  time. 

Pet.  Marry,  and  did  ;  but  if  you  be  remember'd, 

1  did  not  bid  you  mar  it  to  the  time. 
Go,  hop  me  over  every  kennel  home. 

For  you  shall  hop  without  my  custom,  sir; 
I'll  none  of  it ;  hence,  make  your  best  of  it. 

Kath.  I  never  saw  a  better-fashioned  gown. 
More  quaint,  more  pleasing,  nor  more  commendable  : 
Belike,  you  mean  to  make  a  puppet  of  me. 

Pet.    Wliy,  true ;  he  means  to  make  a  puppet  of  thee. 

Tai.  She  says,  your  wonship  means  to  make  a  puppet  of  her. 

Pet.  0  monstrous  arrogance  !     Thou  liest,  thou  thread. 
Thou  thimble,  , 

Thou  yard,  three-quarters,  half-yard,  quarter,  nail. 
Thou  flea,  thou  nit,  thou  winter  cricket  thou  :— 
Brav'd  in  mine  own  house  with  a  skein  of  thread! 
Away,  thou  rag,  thou  quantity,  thou  remnant ; 


102  SHAKSPEARE. 


Or  I  shall  so  be-mete  thee  with  thy  yard. 

As  thou  shalt  think  on  prating  whilst  thou  liv'st ! 

I  tell  thee,  I,  that  thou  hast  marred  her  gown. 

****** 

Hortensio,  say  thou  wilt  see  the  tailor  paid  ; — {aside). 
Go,  take  it  hence  ;  be  gone,  and  say  no  more. 

Hor.  (aside).     Tailor,  I'll  pay  thee  for  thy  gown  to-morrow. 
Take  no  unkindness  of  his  hasty  words  ; 
Away,  I  say ;  commend  me  to  thy  master.  [Exit  Tailor. 

Pet.  Well,  come,  my  Kate  ;  we  will  unto  your  father's. 
Even  in  these  honest  mean  habiliments ; 
Our  purses  shall  be  proud,  our  garments  poor  : 
For  'tis  the  mind  that  makes  the  body  rich  ; 
And  as  the  sun  breaks  through  the  darkest  cloud. 
So  honor  peereth  in  the  meanest  habit. 
What,  is  the  jay  more  precious  than  the  lark. 
Because  his  feathers  are  more  beautiful .' 
Or  is  the  adder  better  than  the  eel. 
Because  his  painted  skin  contents  the  eye  ? 
0,  no,  good  Kate ;  neither  art  thou  the  worse 
For  this  poor  furniture,  and  mean  array. 
If  thou  account'st  it  shame,  lay  it  on  me  : 
And  therefore,  frolick  ;  we  will  hence  forthwith, 
To  feast  and  sport  us  at  thy  father's  house  : — 
Go,  call  my  men,  and  let  us  straight  to  him  ; 
And  bring  our  horses  unto  Long-lane  end  ; 
There  will  we  mount,  and  thither  walk  on  foot  — 
Let's  see ;  I  think,  'tis  now  some  seven  o'clock. 
And  well  we  may  come  there  by  dinner  time. 

Kate.  I  dare  assure  you,  sir,  'tis  almost  two  : 
And  'twill  be  supper-time,  ere  you  come  there. 

Pet.  It  shall  be  seven,  ere  I  go  to  horse: 
Look,  what  I  speak,  or  do,  or  think  to  do. 
You  are  still  crossing  it. — Sirs,  left  alone  : 
I  will  not  go  to-day ;  and  ere  I  do, 
Jt  shall  be  what  o'clock  J  say  it  is. 

Hor.  Why,  s) !  This  gallant  will  command  the  sun.  \^Exeunt. 


Scene. — A  Public  Road. 

Enter  Petruchio,  Katharina,  and  Hortensio. 

Pet.  Come  on,  o'  God's  name  ;  once  more  toward  our  father's. 
Good  Lord,  how  bright  and  goodly  shines  the  moon  ! 
Kath.  The  moon  !  the  sun  ;  it  is  not  moonlight  now. 


SHAKSPEARE.  103 


Pet.  I  say  it  is  the  moon  that  shines  so  bright. 

Kath.  I  know  it  is  the  sun  that  shines  so  bright. 

Pet.  Now,  by  my  mother's  son,  and  thafs  myself. 
It  shall  be  moon,  or  star,  or  what  I  list. 
Or  ere  I  journey  to  your  father's  house  : — 
Go  on,  and  fetch  our  horses  back  again, — 
Evermore  cross'd,  and  cross'd  ;  nothing  but  cross'd .' 

Hor.  Say  as  he  says,  or  we  shall  never  go. 

Kate.  Forward,  I  pray,  since  we  have  come  so  far. 
And  be  it  moon,  or  sun,  or  what  you  please  : 
And  if  you  please  to  call  it  a  rush  candle. 
Henceforth  I  vow  it  shall  be  so  for  me. 

Pet.  I  say,  it  is  the  moon. 

Kath.  I  know  it  is  the  moon. 

Pet.  Nay,  then  you  lie  ;  it  is  the  blessed  sun. 

Kath.  Then,  God  be  bless'd,  it  is  the  blessed  sun  : — 
But  sun  it  is  not,  when  you  say  it  is  not  ;  , 

And  the  moon  changes,  even  as  your  mind. 
What  you  will  have  it  named,  even  that  it  is  ; 
And  so  it  shall  be  so,  for  Katharine. 

Hor.  {to  himself)  Petruchio,  go  thy  ways  ;  the  field  is  won. 

Pet.  Well,  forward,  forward  :  thus  the  bowl  should  run. 

And  not  unluckily  against  the  bias. 

But  soft ;  what  company  is  coming  here  ? 

Enter  Vincentio,  in  a  travelling  dress. 

Good-morrow,  gentle  mistress  ;     Where  away  ." —  [To  Vincentio 

Tell  me,  sweet  Kate,  and  tell  me  truly  too. 

Hast  thou  beheld  a  fresher  gentlewoman  .■' 

Such  war  of  white  and  red  within  her  cheeks  ! 

What  stars  do  spangle  heaven  with  such  beauty. 

As  those  two  eyes  become  that  heavenly  face  ? — 

Fair  lovely  maid,  once  more  good  day  to  thee  : — 

Sweet  Kate,  embrace  her  for  her  beauty's  sake.  ' 

Hor.  'A  will  make  the  man  mad,  to  make  a  woman  of  him. 

Kath.   You7ig  budding  virgin,  fair,  and  fresh,  and  sweet. 
Whither  away  :  or  where  is  thy  abode  .' 
Happy  the  parents  of  so  fair  a  child  ; 
Happier  the  man,  whom  favorable  stars 
Allot  thee  for  his  lovely  bed-fellow  ! 

Pet.  Why,  how  now,  Kate  !     I  ho[)e  thou  art  not  mad  ; 
This  is  a.man,  old.  wrinkled,  faded,  wither'd; 
And  not  a  maiden,  as  thou'say'st  he  is. 

Kath.  Pardon,  old  father,  my  mistaking  eyes, 
That  have  been  so  bedazzled  with  the  sun. 


104  SHAKSPEARE. 


That  everything  I  look  on  seemeth  green  : 
JVoio  I  perceive  thou  art  a  reverend  father  ; 
Pardon,  I  pray  thee,  for  my  mad  mistaking. 
***** 

The  bride  and  bridegroom  have  now  arrived  at  their  place  of 
destination,  and  the  gentlemen  of  the  party  are  talking  in  a  room 
by  themselves : — 

Scene — .^  Room  in  Lucentid's  house. 

****** 

Bap.  Now,  in  good  sadness,  son  Petruchio, 
I  think  thou  hast  the  veriest  shrew  of  all. 

Pet.  Well,  I  say — no  ;  and  therefore,  for  assurance, 
Let's  each  one  send  unto  his  wife  ; 
And  he,  whose  wife  is  most  obedient 
To  come  at  first  when  he  doth  send  for  her, 
Shall  win  the  wager  which  we  will  propose. 

Hor.  Content : What  is  the  wager  ? 

Luc.  Twenty  crowns. 

Pet.  Twenty  crowns  ! 
I'll  venture  so  much  on  my  hawk,  or  hound. 
But  twenty  times  so  much  upon  my  wife. 

Luc.  A  hundred,  then. 

Hor.  Content. 

Pet.  A  match  ;  'tis  done. 

Hor.  Who  shall  begin  .' 

Luc.  That  will  I.  Go, 

Biondello,  hid  your  mistress  come  to  me. 

Bion.  I  go.  [Eocit. 

Bap.  Son,  I  will  be  your  half,  Bianca  comes. 

Luc.  I'll  have  no  halves  ;  I'll  bear  it  all  myself. 

Re-enter  Biondello. 

How  now  !  what  news  .' 

Bion.  Sir,  m.y  mistress  sends  you  word 

That  she  is  busy,  and  she  cannot  come. 

Pet.  How,  she  is  busy,  and  cannot  come  ! 
Is  that  an  answer  ? 

Gre.  Ay,  and  a  kind  one  too. 

Pray  God,  sir,  your  wife  send  you  not  a  worse. 

Pet.  I  hope,  better. 

Hor.  Sirrah  Biondello,  go,  and  entreat  my  wife 
To  come  to  me  forthwith.  \_Exit  Biondello. 

Pet.  O  ho  !  ENTREAT  her! 

JVay,  then  she  must  needs  come. 


SHAKSPEARE.  105 


Hor.  I  am  afraid,  sir. 

Do  what  you  can,  your's  will  not  be  entreated. 

Re-enter  Biondello. 

Now,  Where's  my  wife  ?  « 

Bion.  She  says  you  have  some  goodly  jest  in  hand  ; 
She  will  not  come  ;  she  bids  you  come  to  her. 

Pet.  Worse,  and  worse  ;  she  w  ill  not  come  !  0  vile, 
Intolerable,  not  to  be  endur'd  ! 
Sirrah,  Grumio,  go  to  your  mistress. 
Say,  I  COMMAND  her  come  to  me.  [Exit  Grumio. 

Hor.  I  know  her  answer. 

Pet.  What  ? 

Hor.  She  will  not 

Pet.  The  fouler  fortune  mine,  and  there  an  end. 

Enter  Katharina. 

Bap.  Now,  by  my  holidame,  here  comes  Katharina  ! 

Kath.  What  is  your  will,  sir,  that  you  send  for  me  ? 

Pet.  AVhere  is  your  sister,  and  Hortensio's  wife  .' 

Kath.  They  sit  conferring  by  the  parlor  fire. 

Pet.  Go,  fetch  them  hither  ;  if  they  deny  to  come,        ^ 
Su-inge  me  them  soundly  forth  unto  their  husbands  : 
Away,  I  say,  and  bring  them  hither  straight.  [Exit  Katharina 

Liic.  Here  is  a  wonder,  if  you  talk  of  a  wonder. 

Hor.  And  so  it  is  ;  I  wonder  what  it  bodes. 

Pet.  Marry,  peace  it  bodes,  and  love,  and  quiet  life, 
An  awful  rule,  and  right  supremacy  ; 
And,  to  be  short,  what  not,  that's  sweet  and  happy. 

Bap.  Now  fair  befall  thee,  good  Petruchio  ! 
The  wager  thou  hast  won  ;  and  I  will  add 
Unto  their  losses  twenty  thousand  crowns. 
Another  dowry  to  another  daughter. 
For  she  is  chang'd,  as  she  had  never  been. 

Pet.  Nay,  I  will  win  my  wager  better  yet ; 
And  show  more  sign  of  her  obedience  ; 
Her  new-built  virtue  and  obedience. 

Re-enter  Katharina,  with  Bianca  and  Widow. 

See  where  she  comes  ;  and  brings  your  froward  wives 
As  prisoners  to  her  womanly  persuasion. — 
Katharine,  that  cap  of  yours  becomes  you  not ; 
Off'  with  tliat  bauble  ;  throw  it  under  foot. 

[Katharina  pulls  off  her  cap  and  throtvs  it  down. 
Wid.  Lord,  let  me  never  have  a  cause  to  sigh. 
Till  I  be  brought  to  such  a  sillv  pass  ! 

6*" 


106  SHAKSPEARE. 


Bian.  Fye  !  what  a  foolish  duty  call  you  this  ? 

Luc.  I  would  your  duty  were  as  foolish  too; 
The  wisdom  of  your  duty,  fair  Bianca, 
Hath  cost  me  a  hundred  crowns  since  supper  time. 

Bian.   The  more  fool  you  for  laying  on  my  duty. 

Pet.   Katharine,  I  charge  thee,  tell  these  headstrong  women 
What  duty  they  do  owe  their  lords  and  husbands. 

Wid.  Come,  come,  you're  mocking  ;  W'C  will  have  no  telling. 

Pet.  I  say  she  shall ;  and  first  begin  with  her. 

Kath.  Fye,  fye  !  unknit  that  threat'ning  unkind  brow  ; 
And  dart  not  scornful  glances  from  those  eyes, 
To  wound  thy  lord,  thy  king,  thy  governor  : 
It  blots  thy  beauty,  as  frosts  do  bite  the  meads  : 
Confounds  thy  fame,  as  whirlwinds  shake  fair  buds  ; 
And  in  no  sense  is  meet  or  amiable. 
A  woman  mov'd  is  like  a  fountain  troubled. 
Muddy,  ill-seeming,  thick,  bereft  of  beauty  : 
And,  while  it  is  so,  none  so  dry  or  thirsty 
Will  deign  to  sip,  or  touch  one  drop  of  it. 
Thy  husband  is  thy  lord,  thy  life,  thy  keeper, 
Thy  head,  thy  sovereign;  one  that  cares  for  thee. 
And  for  thy  maintenance  :  commits  his  body 
To  painful  labor,  both  by  sea  and  land  ; 
To  watch  the  night  in  storms,  the  day  in  cold. 
While  thou  liest  warm  at  home,  secure  and  safe  , 
And  craves  no  other  tribute  at  thy  hands, 
But  love,  fair  looks,  and  true  obedience  ; — 
Too  little  payment  for  so  great  a  debt. 
Such  duty  as  the  subject  owes  the  prince. 
Even  such  a  woman  oweth  to  her  husband  : 
And,  when  she's  froward,  peevish,  sullen,  sour. 
And  not  obedient  to  his  honest  will, 
What  is  she,  but  a  foul  contending  rebel. 
And  graceless  traitor  to  her  loving  lord  .' — 
I  am  asham'd,  that  women  are  so  simple 
To  offer  war,  where  they  should  kneel  for  peace ; 
Or  seek  for  rule,  supremacy  and  sway. 
When  they  are  bound  to  serve,  love,  and  obey. 
Why  are  our  bodies  soft,  and  weak,  and  smooth,  _ 

Unapt  to  toil  and  trouble  in  the  world, 
But  that  our  soft  conditions  and  our  hearts 
Should  well  agree  with  our  external  parts .' 
Come,  come,  you  froward  and  unable  worms  ! 
My  mind  hath  been  as  big  as  one  of  yours, 
My  heart  as  great ;  my  reason,  haply,  more. 
To  bandy  word  for  word,  and  frown  for  frown ; 


SHAKSPEARE.  107 


But  now,  I  see  our  lances  are  but  straws  ; 

Our  strength  as  weak,  our  weakness  past  compare, — 

That  seeming  to  be  most,  which  we  indeed  least  are. 

Then  vail  your  stomachs,  for  it  is  no  boot. 

And  place  your  hands  below  your  husbands'  foot : 

In  token  of  which  duty,  if  he  please, 

My  hand  is  ready,  may  it  do  him  ease. 

Pet.     Why,  there's  a  wench  ! — Come  on,  and  kiss  me,  Kate. 

Luc.     Well,  go  thy  ways,  old  lad,  for  thou  shalt  ha't. 

Pet.     Come,  Kate,  we'll  to  bed  ; 
We  three  are  married,  but  you  two  are  sped. 

Hor.     Now  go  thy  ways,  thou  hast  tam'd  a  curst  shrew. 

Luc.     'Tis  a  wonder,  by  your  leave,  she  will  be  tam'd  so.^ 

[Exeunt. 

'  "  His  horse  hipped"  &c.,  &c.— If  Ben  Jonson  had  poured  forth 
this  profusion  of  horse-dealer's  knowledge  (a  little  overdone,  it 
must  be  confessed,  even  for  farce),  it  would  have  been  charged 
against  him  as  ostentation. 

^  "  Tis  a  wonder,  by  your  leave,  she  will  be  tam'd  so." — He  means 
to  intimate  that  he  does  not  think  her  tamed  after  all.  A  woman, 
by  the  way,  like  Katharine,  could  never  have  uttered  those  beau- 
tiful words  about  "a  fountain  troubled,"  &;c.  But  this  is  the 
constant  exception  to  Shakspcare's  otherwise  perfect  nature.  He 
makes  all  his  characters,  unless  they  are  downright  fools,  talk  as 
well  as  himself. 


JOS  BEN  JONSON. 


BEN  JONSON. 

(See  Imagination  and  Fancy  "  p.  140.) 


The  greatest  portion  of  Ben  Jonson's  comic  writing  is  in  prose  ; 
but  the  reader  is  here  presented  with  a  striking  specimen  in  verse, 
— indeed,  the  best  scene  of  his  best  production. 

Ben  Jonson's  famous  humor  is  as  pampered,  jovial,  and  dicta- 
torial as  he  was  in  his  own  person.  He  always  gives  one  the 
idea  of  a  man  sitting  at  the  head  of  a  table  and  a  cotei'ie.  He 
carves  up  a  subject  as  he  would  a  dish  ;  talks  all  the  while  to 
show  off  both  the  dish  and  himself;  and  woe  betide  difference  of 
opinion,  or  his  "  favorite  aversion,"  envy.  He  was  not  an  envious 
man  himself,  provided  you  allowed  him  his  claims.  He  praised 
his  contemporaries  all  round,  chiefly  in  return  for  praises.  He 
had  too  much  hearty  blood  in  his  veins  to  withliold  eulogy  where 
it  was  not  denied  him  ;  but  he  was  somewhat  too  willing  to  can- 
cel it  on  offence.  He  complains  that  he  had  given  heaps  of 
praises  undeserved  ;  tells  Drayton  that  it  liad  been  doubted 
whether  he  was  a  friend  to  anybody  (owing,  doubtless,  partly  to 
this  caprice) :  and  in  the  collection  of  epigrams  printed  under  his 
own  care,  there  are  three  consecutive  copies  of  verse,  two  of 
them  addressed  to  Lord  Salisbury  in  the  highest  style  of  pane- 
gyric, and  the  third  to  the  writer's  muse,  consisting  of  a  recanta- 
tion, apparently  of  the  same  panegyric,  and  worth  repeating  here 
for  its  scorn  and  spleen  : — 

TO  MY  MUSE. 

Away,  and  leave  me,  thou  thing  most  abhorr'd. 
That  hast  betrayed  me  to  a  toorthless  lord : 


BEN  JONSON.  109 

Made  me  commit  most  fierce  idolatry 

To  a  great  image  through  thy  luxury. 

Be  thy  next  master's  tnore  unlucky  Muse, 

And,  as  thou'st  mine,  his  hours  and  youth  abuse. 

Get  him  the  time's  long  grudge,  the  court's  ill  will, 

And,  reconcil'd,  keep  him  suspected  still. 

Make  him,  lose  all  his  friends  ;  and,  which  is  worse, 

Almost  all  ways  to  any  better  course. 

This  is  melancholy.) 

With  me  thou  leav'st  an  happier  Muse  than  thee. 
And  which  thou  brought'st  me,  welcome  Poverty. 
She  shall  instruct  my  after  thoughts  to  write 
Things  manly,  and  not  smelling  parasite. 
But  I  repent  me : — stay.     Whoe'er  is  raised 
For  worth  he  has  not,  he  is  tax'd,  not  prais'd. 

This  is  ingenious  and  true  ;  but  from  a  lord  so  "  worthless," 
it  hardly  became  the  poet  to  withdraw  the  alms  of  his  panegyric. 
He  should  have  left  posterity  to  do  him  justice  ;  or  have  reposed 
on  the  magnanimity  of  a  silent  disdain.  Lord  Salisbury  was  the 
famous  Robert  Cecil,  son  of  Burleigh.  Ben  Jonson  had  proba- 
bly found  his  panegyric  treated  with  neglect,  perhaps  contempt ; 
and  it  was  bold  in  him  to  return  it ;  but  it  was  proclaiming  his 
own  gratuitous  flattery. 

It  has  been  objected  to  Ben  Jonson's  humors,  and  with  truth, 
that  they  are  too  exclusive  of  other  qualities ;  that  the  characters 
are  too  much  absorbed  in  the  peculiarity,  so  as  to  become  per- 
sonifications of  an  abstraction.  They  have  also,  I  think,  an 
amount  of  turbulence  which  hurts  their  entire  reality  ;  gives  them 
an  air  of  conscious  falsehood  and  pretension,  as  if  they  were 
rather  acting  the  thing  than  being  it.  But  this,  as  before  inti- 
mated, arose  from  the  character  of  the  author,  and  his  own  wil- 
ful  and  flustered  temperament.  If  they  are  not  thoroughly  what 
they  might  be,  or  such  as  Shakspeare  would  have  made  them, 
they  are  admirable  Jonsonian  presentations,  and  overflowing  with 
wit,  fancy,  and  scholarship. 


no  BEN  JONSON. 


THE  FOX. 
ScEN^E. — i  Room  in  Volpone's  House. 

Enter  Volpone  and  Mosca. 

Volp.    Good  morning  to  the  day :   and  next,  my  gold  ! — 
Open  the  shrine,  that  I  may  see  my  saint. 

[Mosca  withdraws  the  curtain,  and  discovers  piles  of  gold,  plate, 
jewels,  4"C-] 
Hail  the  world's  soul,  and  mine  !  more  glad  than  is 
The  teeming  earth  to  see  the  long'd-for  sun 
Peep  through  the  horns  of  the  celestial  Ram, 
Jim  I,  to  view  thy  splendor  darkening  his  ; 
That,  lying  here,  amongst  my  other  hoards, 
Show'st  like  a  fame  by  night,  or  like  the  day 
Struck  out  of  chaos,  when  all  darkness  fled 
Unto  the  centre.     0  thou  son  of  Sol, 
But  brighter  than  thy  father,  let  me  kiss, 
With  adoration   thee  and  every  relic 
Of  sacred  treasure  in  this  blessed  room. 
Well  did  wise  poets,  by  thy  glorious  name. 
Title  that  age  which  they  would  have  the  best; 
Thou  being  the  best  of  things,  and  far  transcending 
All  style  of  joy,  in  children,  parents,  friends, 
Or  any  other  waking  dream  on  earth. 
Thy  looks  when  they  to  Venus  did  ascribe, 
They  should  have  given  her  twenty  thousand  Cupids  : 
Such  are  thy  beauties  and  our  loves  !     Dear  saint, 
Riches,  the  dumb  god,  that  giv'st  all  men  tongues. 
Thou  canst  do  naught,  and  yet  mak'st  men  do  all  things ; 
The  price  of  souls  ;  even  hell,  with  thee  to  boot. 
Is  made  worth  heaven.     Thou  art  virtue,  fame. 
Honor,  and  all  things  else.     Who  can  get  thee, 
He  shall  be  noble,  valiant,  honest,  wise 

Mas.  And  what  he  will,  sir.     Riches  are  in  fortune 
A  greater  good  than  wisdom  is  in  nature. 

Volp.  True,  my  beloved  Mosca.     Yet  I  glory 
More  in  the  cunning  purchase  of  my  wealth. 
Than  in  the  glad  possession,  since  I  gain 
No  common  way ;  I  use  no  trade,  no  venture ; 
I  wound  no  earth  with  ploughshares,  fat  no  beasts 
To  feed  the  shambles  ;  have  no  mills  for  iron, 
Oil,  corn,  or  men,  to  grind  them  into  powder  : 


BEN  JONSON,  -111 


I  blow  no  subtle  glass,  expose  no  ships 
To  threat' nings  of  the  furrow-faced  sea  ; 
I  turn  no  monies  in  the  public  bank. 
Nor  usure  private. 

Mas.  No  sir,  nor  devour 

Soft  prodigals.     You  shall  have  some  will  swallow 
A  melting  heir  as  glibly  as  your  Dutch 
Will  pills  of  butter  ; 
Tear  forth  the  fathers  of  poor  families 
Out  of  their  beds,  and  coffin  them  alive 
In  some  kind  clasping  prison,  where  their  bones 
May  be  forthcoming,  when  the  flesh  is  rotten  : 
But  your  sweet  nature  doth  abhor  these  courses  ; 
You  lothe  the  widow's  or  the  orphan's  tears 
Should  wash  your  pavements,  or  their  piteous  cries 
Ring  in  your  roofs,  and  beat  the  ;iir  for  vengeance. 

Volp.  Right,  Moses  ;  I  do  lothe  it. 

Mos.  And  besides,  sir. 

You  are  not  like  the  thresher  that  doth  stand 
With  a  huge  flail,  watching  a  heap  of  corn. 
And,  hungry,  dares  not  taste  the  smallest  grain. 
But  feeds  on  mallows,   and  such  bitter  herbs ; 
Nor  like  the  merchant,  who  hath  fiU'd  his  vaults 
With  Romagnia,  and  rich  Candian  wines. 
Yet  drinks  the  lees  of  Lombard's  vinegar  : 
You  will  lie  not  in  straw,  whilst  moths  and  worms 
Feed  on  your  sumptuous  hangings  and  soft  beds  ; 
You  know  the  use  of  riches,  and  dare  give  now 
From  that  briglit  heap,  to  me,  your  poor  observer. 

Volp.  {Gives him  money.)  Take  of  my  hand;  thou  strik'st  on  truth  in 
all. 
And  they  are  envious  term  thee  parasite. 
I  have  no  wife,  no  parent,  child,  ally, 
To  give  my  substance  to ;  but  whom  I  make 
Must  be  my  heir :  and  this  makes  men  observe  me : 
This  draws  new  clients  daily  to  my  house, 
Women  and  men  of  every  sex  and  age, 
That  bring  me  presents,  send  me  plate,  coin,  jewels, 
With  hope  that  when  I  die  (which  they  expect 
Each  greedy  minute)  it  shall  then  return 
Ten-fold  upon  them ;  whilst  some,  covetous 
Above  the  rest,  seek  to  engross  me  whole, 
And  counter-work  the  one  unto  the  other, 
Contend  in  gifts,  as  they  would  seem  in  love  : 
All  which  I  suffer,  playing  with  their  hopes, 
And  am  content  to  coin  them  into  profit. 


112  BEN  JONSON. 


And  look  upon  their  kindness,  and  take  more, 
And  look  on  that ;  still  bearing  them  in  hand, 
Letting  the  cherry  knock  against  their  lips 
And  draw  it  by  their  mouths,  and  back  again 

{Knocking  without. 

Volp.  Who's  that  ? 

Mos.  'Tis  signior  Voltore,  the  advocate  ; 

I  know  him  by  his  knock. 

Volp.  Fetch  me  my  gown, 

My  furs  and  night-caps  ;  say,  my  couch  is  changing. 
And  let  him  entertain  himself  awhile. 

Without  i'  the  gallery.     {Exit  Mosca.)     Now,  now,  my  clients 
Begin  their  visitation  !     Vulture,  kite, 
Raven,  and  gorcrow,  all  my  birds  of  prey, 
That  think  me  turning  carcase,  now  they  come ; 
I  am  not  for  them  yet 

Re-enter  Mosca,  imth  the  gown,  Sfc. 

How  now  !  the  news  ? 

Mos.  A  piece  of  plate,  sir. 

Volp.  Of  what  bigness  .' 

Mos.  Huge, 

Massy,  and  antique,  with  your  name  inscribed, 
And  arms  engraven. 

Volp.  Good  !  and  not  a  fox 
Stretch'd  on  the  earth,  with  fine  delusive  sleights. 
Mocking  a  gaping  crow  ?  ha,  Mosca ! 

Mos.  Sharp,  sir. 

Volp.  Give  me  my  furs.     {Puts  on  his  sick  dress.)     Why  dost  thou  laugh 
so,  man .' 

Mos.  I  cannot  choose,  sir,  when  1  apprehend 
What  thoughts  he  has  without  now,  as  he  walks  : 
That  this  might  be  the  last  gift  he  should  give  ; 
That  this  would  fetch  you  ;  if  you  died  to-day, 
And  gave  him  all,  what  he  should  be  to-morrow ; 
What  large  return  would  come  of  all  his  ventures ; 
How  he  should  worshipp'd  be,  and  reverenced  ; 
Ride  with  his  furs,  and  foot-cloths ;  waited  on 
By  herds  of  fools,  and  clients ;  have  clear  way 
Made  for  his  mule,  as  letter'd  as  himself; 
Be  call'd  the  great  and  learned  advocate  : 
And  then  concludes,  there's  naught  impossible. 

Volp.  Yes,  to  be  leai-ned,  Mosca. 

Mos.  0,  no  :  rich 

Implies  it.     Hood  an  ass  with  reverend  purple. 


BEN  JONSON.  113 


So  you  can  hide  his  two  ambitious  ears 
And  he  shall  pass  for  a  cathedral  doctor. 

Volp.  My  caps,  my  caps,  good  Mosca.     Fetch  him  in. 

Mos.  Stay,  sir  ;  your  ointment  for  your  eyes. 

Volp.  Th£r  s  true ; 

Dispatch,  dispatch  :  I  long  to  have  possession 
Of  my  new  present. 

Mos.  That,  and  thousands  more, 

I  hope  to  see  you  lord  of. 

Volp.  Thanks,  kind  Mosca. 

Mos.  And  that,  when  I  am  lost  in  blended  dust, 
And  liundred  such  as  I  am,  in  succession 

Volp.  Nay,  that  were  too  much,  Mosca. 

Mos.  You  shall  live, 

Still,  to  delude  these  harpies. 

Volp.  Loving  Mosca ! 

-Tis  well :  my  pillow  now,  and  let  him  enter.  \_Exit  Mosca 

Now,  my  feign'd  cough,  my  phthisic,  and  my  gout. 
My  apoplexy,  palsy,  and  catarrhs. 
Help,  with  your  forced  functions,  this  my  posture. 
Wherein,  this  three  year,  I  have  milk'd  thtir  hopes. 
He  comes  ;  I  hear  him— Uh  !  {coughing)  uh  !  uh  !  uh  !  O — 

Re-enter  Mosca,  introducing  Voltore,  with  a  piece  of  plate. 

Mos.  {to  Volt.)  You  still  are  what  you  were,  sir.     Only  you. 
Of  all  the  rest,  are  he  commands  his  love ; 
And  you  do  wisely  to  preserve  it  thus. 
With  early  visitation,  and  kind  notes 
Of  your  good  meaning  to  him,  which,  I  know, 
Cannot  but  come  most  grateful.     Patron  !  sir  ! 
Here's  signior  Voltore  is  come.  [Speaking  loudly  in  his  ear. 

Volp.  {faintly)  What  say  you  ? 

Mos.  Sir,  .signior  Voltore  is  come  this  morning 
To  visit  you. 

Volp.  I  thank  him. 

Mos.  And  hath  brought 

A  piece  of  antique  plate,  bought  of  St.  Mark, 
With  which  he  here  presents  you. 

Volp.  He  is  welcome. 

Pray  him  to  come  more  often. 

Mos.  Yes. 

Volt.  What  says  he  .' 

Mos.  He  thanks  you,  and  desires  you  see  him  often. 

Volp.  Mosca. 

Mos.  My  patron ! 


114  BEN  JONSON. 


Volp.  Bring  him  near,  where  is  he  ? 

I  long  to  feel  his  hand. 

Mos.  The  plate  is  here,  sir. 

Volt.  How  fare  you,  sir  ? 

Volp.  I  thank  you,  signior  Voltore  ; 

Where  is  the  plate  ?  mine  eyes  are  bad. 

Volt,  {putting  it  i?ito  his  hands)  I'm  sorry 
To  see  you  still  thus  weak. 

Mos.  (aside)  That  he's  not  weaker. 

Volp.  You  are  too  munificent. 

Volt.  No,  sir  ;  would  to  heaven, 

I  could  as  well  give  health  to  you,  as  that  plate  ! 

VoljK  You  give,  sir,  what  you  can  :  I  thank  you.     Your  love 
Hath  taste  in  this,  and  shall  not  be  unanswered  : 
I  pray  you  see  me  often. 

Volt.  Yes,  I  shall,  sir. 

Volp.  Be  not  far  from  me. 

Mos.  Do  you  observe  that,  sir  ? 

Volp.  Hearken  unto  me  still ;  it  will  concern  you. 

Mos.  You  are  a  happy  man,  sir  ;  know  your  good. 

Volp.  I  cannot  now  last  long- 


Mos.  You  are  his  heir,  sir. 

Volt.  Am  I .' 

Volp.  I  feel  me  going :  Uh  !  uh  !  uh  ! 

I'm  sailing  to  my  port.     Uh  !  uh  !  uh  !  uh  ! 
And  I  am  glad  I  am  so  near  my  haven. 

Mos.  Alas,  kind  gentleman  !     Well,  we  must  all  go 

Volt.  But,  Mosca 

Mos.  Age  will  conquer. 

Volt.  'Pray  thee,  hear  me  ; 

Am  I  inscribed  his  heir  for  certain  ? 

Mos.  Are  you  ! 

I  do  beseech  you,  sir,  you  will  vouchsafe 
To  write  me  in  your  family.     All  my  hopes 
Depend  upon  your  worship  :  I  am  lost, 
Except  the  rising  sun  do  shine  on  me. 

Volt.  It  shall  both  shine  and  warm  thee,  Mosca 

Mos.  Sir, 

I  am  a  man  that  hath  not  done  your  love 
All  the  worst  offices:  here  I  wear  your  keys. 
See  all  your  coffers  and  your  caskets  lock'd, 
Keep  the  poor  inventory  of  your  jewels. 
Your  plate  and  monies ;  am  your  steward,  sir. 
Husband  your  goods  here. 

Vol.  But  am  I  sole  heir  .' 

Mos.  Without  a  partner,  sir ;  confirm'd  this  morning : 


BEN  JONSON.  115 


The  wax  is  warm  yet,  and  the  ink  scarce  dry 
Upon  the  parchment. 

Folt.  Happy,  happy,  me  ! 

By  what  good  chance,  sweet  Mosca  ? 

Mos.  Your  desert,  sir ; 

1  know  no  second  cause. 

Volt.  Thy  modesty 

Is  not  to  know  it ;  well,  we  shall  requite  it. 

JHos.  He  ever  liked  your  course,  sir;  that  first  took  him. 
I  oft  have  heard  him  say,  how  he  admired 
Men  of  your  large  profession,  that  could  speak 
To  every  cause,  and  things  mere  contraries. 
Till  they  were  hoarse  again,  yet  all  be  law  ; 
That,  with  most  quick  agility  could  turn. 
And  [re-]  return;  [could]  make  knots,  and  undo  them; 
Give  forked  counsel ;  take  provoking  gold 
On  either  hand,  and  put  it  up  :  these  men. 
He  knew,  would  thrive  with  their  humility. 
And,  for  his  part,  he  thought  he  should  be  blest 
To  have  his  heir  of  such  a  suffering  spirit. 
So  wise,  so  grave,  of  so  perplex'd  a  tongue, 
And  loud  withal,  that  would  not  wag,  nor  scarce 
Lie  still,  without  a  fee :  when  every  word 

Your  worship  but  lets  fall,  is  a  chequin  !  \_Knocking  without. 

Who's  that  ?  one  knocks  ;  I  would  not  have  you  seen,  sir. 
And  yet — pretend  you  came,  and  went  in  haste  : 

I'll  fashion  an  excuse and,  gentle  sir. 

When  you  do  come  to  swim  in  golden  lard. 
Up  to  the  arms  in  honey,  that  your  chin 
Is  borne  up  stiff  with  fatness  of  the  food. 
Think  on  your  vassal ;  but  remember  me  : 
I  have  not  been  your  worst  of  clients. 

Volt.  Mosca 

Mos.  When  will  you  have  your  inventory  brought,  sir  .' 

Or  see  a  copy  of  the  will .' Anon  ! — 

I'll  bring  them  to  you,  sir.     Away,  begone. 

Put  business  in  your  face.  lExit  Voltore. 

Volp.  {springing  up).  Excellent  Mosca  ! 
Come  hither,  let  me  kiss  thee. 

Mos.  Keep  you  still,  sir. 

Here  is  Corbaccio. 

Volp.  Set  the  plate  away  ; 

The  vulture's  gone,  and  the  old  raven's  come  ! 

Mos.  Betake  you  to  your  silence,  and  your  sleep. 
Stand  there  and  multiply.     (Putting  the  plate  to  the  rest.)    Now  shall  we 
see 


116  BEN  JONSON. 


A  wretch  who  is  indeed  more  impotent 
Than  this  can  feign  to  be  ;  yet  hopes  to  hop 


Over  his  grave- 


Enter  CORBACCIO. 

Signior  Corbaccio ! 
You're  very  welcome,  sir. 

Corb.  How  does  your  patron  ? 

Mas.  Troth,  as  he  did,  sir,  no  amends. 

Corb.  What !  mends  he  1 

Mos.  No,  sir  ;  he's  rather  worse. 

Corb.  That's  well.     Where  is  he  ? 

Mos.  Upon  his  couch,  sir,  newly  fall'n  asleep. 

Corb.  Does  he  sleep  well  ? 

Mos.  JVo  wink,  sir,  all  this  night. 

JYor  yesterday  ;  but  slumbers. 

Corb.  Good!  he  should  take 

Some  counsel  of  physicians  :  I  have  brought  him 
An  opiate  here,  from  mine  own  doctor. 

Mos.  He  will  not  hear  of  drugs. 

Corb.  Why  I  myself 

Stood  by  while  it  was  made,  saw  all  the  ingredients  : 
And  know,  it  cannot  but  most  gently  work  : 
My  life  for  his,  'tis  but  to  make  him  sleep. 

Volp.  {aside)  Ay,  his  last  sleep,  if  he  would  take  it. 

Mos.  Sir, 

He  has  no  faith  iu  physic. 

Corb.  Say  you,  say  you  .' 

Mos.  He  has  no  faith  in  physic  :  he  does  think 
Most  of  your  doctors  are  the  greater  danger,  ' 

And  worse  disease,  to  escape.     I  often  have 
Heard  him  protest,  that  your  physician 
Should  never  be  his  heir. 

Corb.  Not  I  his  heir  ? 

Mos.  Not  your  physician,  sir. 

Corb.  0,  no,  no,  no, 

I  do  not  mean  it. 

Mos.  No,  sir,  nor  their  fees 

He  cannot  brook  ;  he  says,  they  flay  a  man 
Before  they  kill  him. 

Corb.  Right,  I  do  conceive  you. 

Mos.  And  then  they  do  it  by  experiment ; 
For  which  the  law  not  only  doth  absolve  them, 
But  gives  them  great  reward :  and  he  is  loth 
To  hire  his  death,  so. 


BEN  JONSON.  117 


Corb.  It  is  true,  they  kill 

With  as  much  license  as  a  judge. 

J^Ios.  Nay,  more  ; 

For  he  but  kills,  sir,  where  the  law  condemns. 
And  these  can  kill  him  too. 

Corb.  Ay,  or  me  ; 

Or  any  man.     How  does  his  apoplex  .-' 
Is  that  strong  on  him  still .' 

Mos.  Most  violent. 

His  speech  is  broken,  and  his  eyes  are  set, 
His  face  drawn  longer  than  'twas  wont  .> 

Corb.  How  !   how  ! 

Stronger  than  he  was  wont  ? 

Mos.  No,  sir  :  his  face 

Drawn  longer  than  'twas  wont. 

Corb.  O  good  ! 

Mos.  His  mouth 

Is  ever  gaping,  and  his  eyelids  hang. 

Corb.  Good. 

Mos.  A  freezing  numbness  stiffens  all  his  joints. 
And  makes  the  color  of  his  flesh  like  lead. 

Corb.  '  Tis  good. 

Mos.  His  pulse  beats  slow,  and  dull, 

Corb.  Good  symptoms  still 

Mos.  And  from  his  brain 

Co7-b.  I  do  conceive  you  ;  good. 

Mos.  Flows  a  cold  sweat,  with  a  continual  rheum, 
Forth  the  resolved  corners  of  his  eyes. 

Corb.  Is't  possible  ?     Yet  I  am  better,  ha  ! 
How  does  he,  with  the  swimming  of  his  head  ? 

Mos.   0,  sir,  'tis  past  the  scotomy  ;*  he  now 
Hath  lost  his  feeling,  and  hath  left  to  snort : 
You  hardly  can  perceive  him,  that  he  breathes. 

Corb.  Excellent,  excellent !  sure  I  shall  outlast  him : 
This  makes  me  young  again,  a  score  of  years. 

Mos.  I  was  a-coming  for  you,  sir. 

Corb.  Has  he  made  his  will  ? 

What  has  he  given  me  .' 

Mos.  No,  sir. 

Corb.  Nothing  !  ha  .' 

Mos.  He  has  not  made  his  will,  sir. 

Corb.  Oh,  oh,  oil! 

What  then  did  Voltore,  the  lawyer,  here  .' 

Mos.  He  smelt  a  carcase,  sir,  when  he  but  heard 


Darkness  coming  over  the  eyes. 


118  BEN  JONSON. 


My  master  was  about  his  testament ; 

As  I  did  urge  him  to  it  for  your  good 

Corb.  He  came  unto  him,  did  he  ?     I  thought  so. 

Mos.  Yes,  and  presented  him  this  piece  of  plate. 

Corb.  To  be  his  heir  ? 

Mos.  I  do  not  know,  sir. 

Corb.  True : 

I  know  it  too. 

Mos.  {aside)  By  your  own  scale,  sir. 

Corb.  Well, 

T  shall  prevent  him,  yet.     See,  Mosca,  look, 
Here,  I  have  brought  a  bag  of  bright  chequines, 
Will  quite  weigh  down  his  plate. 

Mos.  {taking  the  bag)  Yea,  marry,  sir. 
This  is  true  physic,  this  your  sacred  medicine  ; 
No  talk  of  opiates  to  this  great  elixir  ! 

Corb.  'Tis  aurum  palpabile,  if  not  potabile. 

Mos.  It  shall  be  minister'd  to  him,  in  his  bowl. 

Corb.  Ay,  do,  do,  do. 

Mos.  Most  blessed  cordial ! 

This  will  recover  him. 

Corb.  Yes,  do,  do,  do. 

Mos.  I  think  it  were  not  best,  sir. 

Corb.  AVhat  ? 

Mos.  To  recover  him. 

Corb.  0,  no,  no,  no ;  by  no  means. 

Mos.  Why,  sir,  this 

Will  work  some  strange  effect,  if  he  but  feel  it. 

Corb.  'Tis  true,  therefore  forbear  ;  I'll  take  my  venture  : 
Give  me  it  again. 

Mos.  At  no  hand  ;  pardon  me  : 

You  shall  not  do  yourself  that  wrong,  sir.     I 
Will  so  advise  you,  you  shall  have  it  all. 

Corb.  How .' 

Mos.  All,  sir  ;  'tis  your  right,  your  own  :  no  man 
Can  claim  a  part :  'tis  yours,  without  a  rival, 
Decreed  by  destiny. 

Corb.  How,  how,  good  Mosca  ? 

Mos.  I'll  tell  you,  sir,      This  fit  he  shall  recover. 

Corb.  I  do  conceive  you. 

Mos.  And  on  first  advantage 

Of  his  gained  sense,  will  I  re-importune  him 
Unto  the  making  of  his  testament  : 
And  show  him  this.  \_Pointing  to  the  money. 

Corb,  Good,  good. 


BEN  JONSON.  119 


Mos.  'Tis  better  yet. 

If  you  will  hear,  sir. 

Corb.  Yes,  with  all  my  heart. 

Mos.  Now,  would  I  counsel  you,  make  home  with  speed  ; 
There,  frame  a  will ;  whereto  you  shall  inscribe 
My  master  your  sole  heir. 

Corb.  And  disinherit 

My  son  ! 

Mos.  O,  sir,  the  better  ;  for  that  color 
Shall  make  it  much  more  taking. 

Corb.  0,  but  color  .' 

Mos.  This  will,  sir,  you  shall  send  it  unto  me. 
Now,  when  I  come  to  inforce,  as  I  will  do. 
Your  cares,  your  watchings,  and  your  many  prayers. 
Your  more  than  many  gifts,  your  this  day's  present. 
And  last,  produce  your  will ;  where,  without  thought. 
Or  least  regard,  unto  your  proper  issue, 
A  son  so  brave,  and  highly  meriting. 
The  stream  of  your  diverted  love  hath  thrown  you 
Upon  my  master,  and  made  him  your  heir ; 
He  cannot  be  so  stupid,  or  stone-dead. 
But  out  of  conscience ,  and  mere  gratitude 

Corb.   He  must  pronounce  me  his  7 

Mos.  'Tis  true. 

Corb.   This  plot 
Did  I  think  on  before. 

Mos.  I  do  believe  it. 

Corb.  Do  you  not  believe  it  ? 

Mos.  Yes,  sir. 

Corb.  Mine  own  project. 

Mos.  Which,  when  he  hath  done,  sir- 
Cord.  Publish'd  me  his  heir  ? 

Mos.  And  you  so  certain  to  survive  him — 

Corb.  Ay. 

Mos.  Being  so  lusty  a  man 

Corb.  'Tis  true. 

Mos.  Yes,  sir 

Corb.  1  thought  on  that  too.     See,  how  he  should  be 
The  very  organ  to  express  my  thoughts  ! 

Mos.  You  have  not  only  done  yourself  a  good 

Corb.  But  multiplied  it  on  my  son. 

Mos.  'Tis  right,  sir. 

Corb.  Still,  my  invention. 

Mos.                                     'Laa,  sir  !  heaven  knows. 
It  hath  been  all  my  study,  all  my  care, 
(I  e'en  grow  grey  withal)  how  to  work  things 


.120  BEN  JONSON. 


Corb.  I  do  conceive,  sweet  Mosca. 

Mos.  You  are  he, 

For  whom  I  labor  here. 

Corb.  Ay,  do,  do,  do  : 

I'll  straight  about  it.  [  Going. 

Mos.  Rook  go  with  you,  raven  ! 

Corb.  I  know  thee  honest 

Mos.  {aside)  You  do  lie,  sir  ! 

Corb.  And 

Mos.  Your  knowledge  is  no  better  than  your  ears,  sir. 

Corb.  I  do  not  doubt,  to  be  a  father  to  thee 

Mos.  Nor  I  to  gull  my  brother  of  his  blessing. 

Corb.  I  may  have  my  youth  restored  to  me,  why  not  ? 

Mos.  {in  an  under  tone)  Your  worship  is  a  precious  ass  ! 

Corb.  What  say'st  thou  ? 

Mos.  I  do  desire  your  worship  to  make  haste,  sir. 

Corb.  'Tis  done,  'tis  done  ;  1  go.  ]_Exit. 

Volp.  {leaping  from  his  couch)  O,  I  shall  burst ! 
Let  out  my  sides,  let  out  my  sides — 

Mos.  Contain 

Your  flux  of  laughter,  sir  :  you  know  this  hope 
Is  such  a  buit,  it  covers  any  hook. 

Volp.  0,  but  thy  working,  and  thy  placing  it ! 
I  cannot  hold  ;  good  rascal,  let  me  kiss  thee  : 
I  never  knew  thee  in  so  rare  a  humor. 

Mos.  Alas,  sir,  I  but  do  as  I  am  taught ; 
Follow  your  grave  instructions  ;  give  them  words  ; 
Pour  oil  into  their  ears,  and  send  them  hence, 

Volp.  'Tis  true,  'tis  true.      What  a  rare  punishment 
Is  avarice  to  itself ! 

Mos.  Ay,  with  our  help,  sir. 

Volp.   So  many  cares,  so  many  maladies. 
So  many  fears  attending  07i  old  age. 
Yea,  death  so  often  call'd  on,  as  no  wish 
Can  be  more  frequent  with  them,  their  limbs  faint. 
Their  senses  dull,  their  seeing,  hearing,  going. 
Ml  dead  before  them  ;  yea,  their  very  teeth. 
Their  instruments  of  eating,  failing  them; 
Yet  this  is  reckoned  life  !  nay,  here  was  one. 
Is  now  gone  home,  that  wishes  to  live  longer .' 
Feels  not  his  gout,  nor  palsy  :  feigns  himself 
Younger  by  scores  of  years,  flatters  his  age 
With  confident  belying  it,  hopes  he  may. 
With  charms,  like  JEson,  have  his  youth  restored  : 
And  with  these  thoughts  so  battens,  as  if  fate- 


BEN  JONSON.  121 

Would  be  as  easily  cheated  on,  as  he. 

And  all  turns  air .'   [Knocking  withiti.}   Who's  that  there,  now  ?  a  third  ! 

Mos.  Close,  to  your  couch  again  ;  I  hear  his  voice  : 
It  is  Corvino,  our  spruce  merchant. 

Volp.  {lies  down  as  before)  Dead. 

Mos.  Another  bout,    sir,  with  your  eyes.     [Anointing  thetn.] — Who's 
there  .' 

Enter  Corvino. 
Signior  Corvino  !  come  most  wish'd  for  !     0, 
How  happy  were  you,  if  you  knew  it,  now  ! 

Corv.  Why  ?  what  ?  wherein  .' 

Mas.  The  tardy  hour  is  come,  suv 

Corv.  He  is  not  dead  ? 

Mos.  Not  dead,  sir,  but  as  good  : 

He  knows  no  man. 

Corv.  How  shall  I  do  then  .' 

Mos.  Why,  sir .' 

Corv.  I  have  brought  him  here  a  pearl. 

Mos.  ■    Perhaps  he  has 

So  ranch  remembrance  left,  as  to  know  you,  sir  : 
He  still  calls  on  you  ;  nothing  but  your  name 
Is  in  his  mouth.     Is  your  pearl  orient,  sir  7 

Corv.  Venice  was  never  owner  of  the  like. 

Volp.  {faintly)  Signior  Corvino  ! 

Mos.  Hark. 

Volp.  Signior  Corvino ! 

Mos.  He  calls  you  ;  step  and  give  it  him.— He's  here,  sir, 

[Bawling  to  Voi-pone 
And  he  has  brought  you  a  rich  pearl. 

Corv.  How  do  you,  sir  ? 

Tell  him,  it  doubles  the  twelfth  caract. 

Mos.  Sir, 

He  cannot  understand,  his  hearing's  gone  ; 
And  yet  it  comforts  him  to  see  you 

Corv.  Say, 

I  have  a  diamond  for  him,  too. 

Mos.  Best  show  it,  sir  ; 

Put  it  into  his  hand ;  'tis  only  there 
He  apprehends  :  he  has  his  feeling,  yet. 
See  how  he  grasps  it  ! 

Corv.  'Las,  good  gentleman ! 

How  pitifii.  the  sight  i.s  ! 

Mos.  Tut !  forget,  sir, 

The  weeping  of  an  heir  should  still  be  laughter 
Under  a  visor. 

Corv.  Why,  am  I  his  heir  .' 

7 


122  BEN  JONSON. 


Mos.  Sir,  I  am  sworn,  I  may  not  show  the  will 
Till  he  be  dead  :  but  here  has  been  Corbaccio, 
Here  has  been  Voltore,  here  were  others  too, 
I  cannot  number  'em,  they  were  so  many ; 
All  gaping  here  for  legacies  :  but  I, 
Taking  the  vantage  of  his  naming  you, 
Signior  Corvino,  Signior  Corvino,  took 
Paper,  and  pen,  and  ink,  and  there  I  asked  him. 
Whom  he  would  have  his  heir  ?     Corvi?io.     Who 
Should  be  executor  ?     Corvino.     And, 
To  any  question  he  was  silent  to, 
I  still  interpreted  the  nods  he  made. 

Through  weakness,  for  consent ;  and  sent  home  th'  others, 
Nothing  bequeath'd  them,  but  to  cry  and  curse. 

Corv.  O,  my  dear  Mosca  !  \.They  embrace.']  Does  he  not  perceive  us  ? 

Mos.  No  more  than  a  blind  harper.     He  knows  no  man,. 
No  face  of  friend,  nor  name  of  any  servant. 
Who  'twas  that  fed  him  last,  or  gave  him  drink ; 
Not  those  he  hath  begotten,  or  brought  up. 
Can  he  remember. 

Corv.  Has  he  children  ? 

Mos.  Bastards ; 

Some  dozen,  or  more  ;  but  he  has  given  them  nothing. 

Corv.  That's  well,  that's  well !     Art  sure  he  does  not  hear  us  .' 

Mos.  Sure,  sir  !  why,  look  you,  credit  your  own  sense. 

[  Shouts  in  Vol.'s  ear. 
The  pox  approach,  and  add  to  your  diseases. 
If  it  would  send  you  hence  the  sooner,  sir. 
For  your  incontinence,  it  hath  deserv'd  it 
Thoroughly,  and  thoroughly,  and  the  plague  to  boot ! — 
You  may  come  near,  sir. — Would  you  would  once  close 
Those  filthy  eyes  of  yours,  that  flow  with  slime. 
Like  two  frog-pits  ;  and  those  same  hanging  cheeks, 
Cover'd  with  hide  instead  of  skin — Nay,  help,  sir — 
That  look  like  frozen  dish-clouts  set  on  end  ! 

Corv.   {aloud)   Or  like  an  old  smoked  wall,  on  which  the  rain 
Ran  down  in  streaks  ! 

Mos.  Excellent !     I  could  stifle  him. 

Corv.  Do  as  you  will ;  but  I'll  be  gone. 

Mos.  Be  so: 

It  is  your  presence  makes  him  last  so  long. 

Corv.  I  pray  you,  use  no  violence. 

Mos.  No,  sir  !  why .' 

Why  should  you  be  thus  scrupulous,  pray  you,  sir  ? 

Corv.  Nay,  at  your  discretion. 

Mos.  Well,  good,  sir,  begone. 


BEN  JOiNSON.  123 


Corv.  I  will  not  trouble  him  now,  to  take  my  pearl. 

Mos.  Pull !  nor  your  diamond.     What  a  needless  care 
Is  this  afflicts  you  ?     Is  not  all  here  yours  ? 
Am  not  I  here,  whom  you  have  made  your  creature, 
That  owe  my  being  to  you  ? 

Corv.  Grateful  Mosca! 

Thou  art  my  friend,  my  fellow,  my  companion, 
My  partner,  and  shalt  share  in  all  my  fortunes.  Exit  Corv 

Mos.  Now  is  he  gone:  we  had  no  other  means 
To  shoot  him  hence,  but  this. 

Volp.  {Icapiixf^  from  his  couch)  My  divine  Mosca ! 
Thou  hast  to-day  outgone  thyself. — Prepare 
Me  music,  dances,  banquets,  all  delights  ; 
The  Turk  is  not  more  sensual  in  his  pleasures. 
Than  will  Volpone. 


124  BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 


BEAUMONT    AND  FLETCHER. 

[See  "  Imagination  and  Fancy,"  page  150.] 


Since  expressing,  in  the  above  volume,  the  surprise  which  every- 
body feels  at  the  astounding  mixture  of  license  and  refinement 
displayed  by  these  poets  (for  the  grossness  of  earlier  writers  is 
but  a  simplicity  compared  with  it),  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  it  was  an  excess  of  animal  spirits,  encouraged  by  the  demand 
of  the  times,  and  the  intoxication  of  applause.  They  were  the 
sons  of  men  of  rank :  they  had  been  thrown  upon  the  town  in 
the  heyday  of  their  blood,  probably  with  a  turn  for  lavish 
expenditure ;  they  certainly  wanted  money  as  they  advanced, 
and  were  glad  to  get  it  of  gross  audiences  ;  they  had  been 
taught  to  confound  loyalty  with  servility,  which  subjected  them 
to  the  dissolute  influence  of  the  court  of  James  the  First ;  they 
came  among  the  actors  and  the  playwrights,  with  advantages  of 
position,  perhaps  of  education  and  accomplishments,  superior  to 
them  all :  their  confidence,  their  wit,  their  enjoyment  was  un- 
bounded ;  everybody  was  glad  to  hear  what  the  gay  gentlemen 
had  to  say ;  and  forth  they  poured  it  accordingly,  without  stint 
or  conscience.  Beaumont  died  young ;  but  Fletcher,  who  went 
writing  on,  appears  to  have  taken  a  still  greater  license  than  his 
friend.  The  son  of  the  bishop  had  probably  been  tempted  to  go 
farther  out  of  bounds  than  the  son  of  the  judge  ;  for  Dr.  Fletcher 
was  not  such  a  bishop  as  Grindall  or  Jewel.  The  poet  might 
have  been  taught  hypocrisy  by  his  father ;  and,  in  despising  it 
as  he  grew  up,  had  gone  to  another  extreme. 

The  reader  of  the  following  scenes  will  observe  the  difference 
between  the  fierce  weight  of  the  satire  of  Volpone,  in  which 


BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER.  125 

poison  and  suffocation  are  brought  in  to  aggravate,  and  the  gayer 
caricature  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher.  It  is  equally  founded  on 
truth — equally  wilful  and  superabundant  in  the  treatment  of  it, 
but  more  light  and  happy.  You  feel  that  the  writers  enjoyed  it 
with  a  gayer  laugh.  The  pretended  self-deception  with  which  a 
coward  lies  to  his  own  thoughts, — the  necessity  for  support  which 
induces  him  to  apply  to  others  as  cowardly  as  himself  for  the 
warrant  of  their  good  opinion,  and  the  fascinations  of  vanity 
which  impel  such  men  into  the  exposure  which  they  fancy  they 
have  taken  the  subtlest  steps  to  guard  against,  are  most  entertain 
ingly  set  forth  in  the  interview  of  Bessus  with  the  two  bullies, 
and  the  subsequent  catastrophe  of  all  three  in  tlie  hands  of 
Bacurius.  The  nice  balance  of  distinction  and  difference  in 
which  the  bullies  pretend  to  weigh  the  merits  of  kicks  and  beat- 
ings, and  the  impossibility  which  they  affect  of  a  shadow  of 
imputation  against  their  valors,  or  even  of  the  power  to  assume 
it  hypothetically,  are  masterly  plays  of  wit  of  the  first  order. 

The  scenes  entitled  Duke  and  No  Duke  are  less  perfect  writing, 
but  they  would  be  still  more  effective  in  representation.  The 
folly  is  "  humored  to  the  top  of  its  bent ;"  and  the  idea  of  Ma- 
rine's being  deprived  of  his  titles  by  the  whisk  of  a  sword,  be- 
sides being  a  good  practical  jest,  is  a  startling  reduction  of  such 
honors  to  their  first  principles 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  KICKS  AND  BEATINGS. 
From  the  play  of  "  King  and  No  King  " 
Bessus,  a  beaten  poltroon,  applies  to  a  couple  of  professional 
bullies,  also  poltroons,  to  sit  in  judgment  on  his  case,  and  testify 
to  his  character  for  valor.  They  accompany  him  to  the  house  of 
Bacurius  to  do  so,  and  bring  an  unexpected  certificate  on  the 
whole  party. 

Scene,  a  room  i7i  the  house  of  Besstjs. 
Enter  Bessus,   two  Swordmen,  and  a  Boy. 

Bes.  You're  very  welcome,  both  !  Some  stools  there,  boy  ; 
And  reach  a  table.     Gentlemen  o'  th'  sword, 


126  BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 


Pray  sit,  without  more  compliment.     Begone,  child  ! 
I  have  been  curious  in  the  searching  of  you, 
Because  I  understand  you  wise  and  valiant. 

1  Sw.  We  understand  ourselves,  sir. 

Bes.  Nay,  gentlemen,  and  dear  friends  o'  the  sword, 
No  compliment,  I  pray ;  but  to  the  cause 
I  hang  upon,  which,  in  few,  is  my  honor. 

2  Sw.  You  cannot  hang  too  much,  sir,  for  your  honor. 
But  to  your  cause. 

Bes.  Be  wise  and  speak  the  truth. 

My  first  doubt  is,  my  beating  by  my  prince. 

1  Sw.  Stay  there  a  little,  sir  ;  Do  you  doubt  a  beating,' 
Or,  have  you  had  a  beating  by  your  prince  .' 

Bes.  Gentlemen  o'  th'  sword,  my  prince  has  beaten  me. 

2  Sw.  Brother,  what  think  you  of  this  case  .' 

1  Sw.  If  fie  has  beaten  him,  the  case  is  clear. 

2  Sw.  If  he  have  beaten  him,  I  grant  the  case. 
But  how?  we  cannot  be  too  subtle  in  this  business, 
I  say,  but  how  ? 

Bes.  Even  with  his  royal  hand 

1  Sw.  Was  it  a  blow  of  love,  or  indignation  ? 

Bes.  'Twas  twenty  blows  of  indignation,  gentlemen  ; 
Besides  two  blows  o'  th'  face. 

2  Sw.    Those  blows  o'  th'  face  have  made  a  new  cause  on  't , 
The  rest  were  but  an  honorable  rudejiess. 

1  Sw.  Two  blows  o'  th'  face,  and  given  by  a  worse  man, 
I  must  confess,  as  the  swordmen  say,  had  tuni'd 

The  busi7iess :  Mark  me,  brother,  by  a  worse  man : 
But,  being  by  his  prince,  had  they  been  ten, 
.Mnd  those  ten  drawn  ten  teeth,  besides  the  hazard 
Of  his  nose  for  ever,  all  this  had  been  but  favors. 
This  is  my  flat  opinion,  which  I  '11  die  in. 

2  Sw.  The  king  may  do  much,  captain,  believe  it ; 
For  had  he  crack'd  your  skull  through,  like  a  bottle. 
Or  broke  a  rib  or  two  with  tossing  of  you. 

Yet  you  had  lost  no  honor.     This  is  strange. 
You  may  imagine  ;  but  this  is  truth  now,  captain. 

Bes.  I  will  be  glad  to  embrace  it,  gentlemen. 
But  how  far  may  he  strike  me  ? 

1  Sw.  There's  another  ; 

A  new  cause  rising  from  the  time  and  distance. 
In  which  I  will  deliver  my  opinion. 
He  may  strike,  beat,  or  cause  to  be  beaten  ; 
For  these  are  natural  to  man  : 
Your  prince,  I  say,  may  beat  you  so  far  forth 
Jls  his  dominion  reaches ;  that 's  for  the  distance ; 


BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER.  127 


The  time,  ten  miles  a  day,  I  take  it. 

2  Sw.  Brother,  you  err,  'tis  fil'teen  miles  a  day ; 
His  stage  is  ten,  his  beatings  are  fifteen. 

Bes.  '  Tis  of  the  longest,  but  we  subjects  must — 

1  Sw.   Be  subject  to  it.     You  are  wise  and  virtuous. 
Bes.  Obedience  ever  makes  that  noble  use  on't, 

To  which  I  dedicate  my  beaten  body. 

I  must  trouble  you  a  little  further,  gentlemen  o'  th'  sword. 

2  Sw.  No  trouble  at  all  to  us,  sir,  if  we  may 
Profit  your  understanding.     We  are  bound. 
By  virtue  of  our  calling,  to  utter  our  opinion 
Shortly  and  discreetly. 

Bes.   My  sorest  bwiiness  is,  I've  been  kicUfd. 

2  Sw.    IIow  far,  sir  .' 

Bes.  JS'^ot  to  flatter  myself,  all  over : 

My  sword  lost,  but  not  forced ;  for  discreetly 
I  rcnder'd  it,  to  save  that  imputation. 

1  Sw.  It  show'd  discretion,  the  best  part  of  valor. 

2  Sw.  Brother,  this  is  a  pretty  cause ;  pray  ponder  on't : 
Our  friend  here  has  been  kick'd. 

1  Sw.  -  He  has  so,  brother. 

2  Sw.   Sorely,  he  says.     Now,  had  he  set  down  here 
Upon  the  mere  kick,  't  had  been  cowardly. 

1  Sw.  I  think,  it  had  been  cowardly,  indeed. 

2  Sw.  But  our  friend  has  redeem'd  it,  in  delivering 
His  sword  without  compulsion  ;  and  that  man 

That  took  it  of  him,  I  pronounce  a  weak  one, 
..^nd  his  kicks  nullities. 

He  should  have  kick'd  hitn  after  the  delivering. 
Which  is  the  confirmation  of  a  coward  1 

1  Sw.  Brother,  I  take  it  you  mistake  the  question; 
Fur  say,  that  I  were  kick'd. 

2  Sw.  I  must  not  say  so  : 
JVbr  I  must  not  hear  it  spoke  by  th'  tongue  of  man. 
You  kick'd,  dear  brother  !     Yori  are  merry 

1  Sw.  But  put  the  case,  I  were  kick'd. 

2  Sw.  Let  them  put  it, 
That  are  things  weary  of  their  lives,  and  know 
Not  honor  !  Put  the  case,  you  were  kick'd  ! 

1  Sw.  I  do  not  say  I  was  kick'd 

2  Sw.  No ;  nor  no  silly  creature  that  wears  his  head 
Without  a  case,  his  soul  in  a  skin  coat. 

You  kick'd,  dear  brother  ! 

Bes.  Nay,  gentlemen,  let  us  do  what  we  shall  do, 
Truly  and  honestly.     Good  sirs,  to  the  question. 

1  Sw.  Why,  then,  I  say,  suppose  your  boy  kick'd,  captain 


128  BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 


2  Sw.   The  boy,  may  be  supposed,  is  liable. 
But,  kick  my  brother  ' 

1  Sw.  ^i  foolish  forward  zeal,  sir,  in  my  friend. 
But  to  the  boy :    Suppose  the  boy  were  kick'd. 

Bes.  I  do  suppose  it. 

1  Sio.  Has  your  boy  a  sword  .' 

Bes.  Surely,  no  ;  I  pray,  suppose  a  sword  too. 

1  Sw.  I  do  suppose  it.     You  grant,  your  boy  was  kick'd  then. 

2  Sw.  By  no  means,  captain  ;  let  it  be  supposed  still. 
The  word  "  grant"  makes  not  for  us. 

1  Sw.  I  say,  this  must  be  granted. 

2  Sw.  This  must  be  granted,  brother  .' 

1  Sw.  Ay,  this  must  be  granted. 

2  Sw    Still,  this  must  ? 

1  Sw.  I  say,  this  vnist  be  granted. 

2  Sw.  Ay  !  give  me  the  must  again  !     Brother,  you  palter. 

1  Sw.  I  will  not  hear  you,  wasp. 

2  Sw.  Brother, 

I  say  you  palter ;  the  must  three  times  together ! 
I  wear  as  sharp  steel  as  another  man, 
And  my  fox  bites  as  deep.     Musted,  my  dear  brother  ! 
But  to  the  cause  again. 

Bes.  Nay,  look  you,  gentlemen  ! 

2  Sw.  In  a  word,  I  ha'  done. 

1  Sw.  A  tall  man,  but  intemperate;  'tis  great  pity. 
Once  more,  suppose  the  boy  kick'd. 

2  Sw.  Forward. 

1  Sw.  And,  being  thoroughly  kicked,  laughs  at  the  kicker. 

2  Sw.  So  much  for  us.     Proceed. 

1  Sw.  And  in  this  beaten  scorn,  as  I  may  call  it, 
Delivers  up  his  weapon  ;  where  lies  the  error  .' 

Bes.  It  lies  i'  the  beating,  sir  ;  I  found  it  four  days  since. 

2  Sw.  The  error,  and  a  sore  one,  as  I  take  it. 
Lies  in  the  thing  kicking. 

Bes.  I  understand  that  well ;  'tis  sore  indeed,  sir. 

1  Sw.  That  is  according  to  the  man  that  did  it, 

2  Sw.  There  springs  a  new  branch :  Whose  was  the  foot ' 
Bes.  A  lord's. 

1  Sw.  The  cause  is  mighty  ;  but,  had  it  been  two  lords. 
And  both  had  kick'd  you,  if  you  laugh'd,  'tis  clear. 

Bes.   I  did  laugh  ;  but  how  will  that  help  me,  gentlemen  ? 

2  Stu.  Yes,  it  shall  help  you,  if  you  laugh'd  aloud. 
Bes.  As  loud  as  a  kick'd  man  could  laugh,  I  laugh'd,  sir 
1  Sw.  My  reason  now :  The  valiant  man  is  known 

By  suffering  and  contemning  :  you  have  had 
Enough  of  both,  and  you  are  valiant. 


BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER.  139 

2  Sw.  Jf  he  be  sure  he  has  been  kicked  enough: 
For  that  brave  sufferance  you  speak  of,  brother. 
Consists  not  in  a  beating  and  away. 
But  in  a  cudgeU'd  body,  from  eighteen 
To  eight  and  thirty  ;   in  a  head  rebuked 
With  pots  of  all  size,  daggers,  stools,  and  bedstaves: 
This  shows  a  valiant  man. 

Bcs.  Then  I  «?»  valiant,  as  valiant  as  the  proudest  ; 
For  these  are  all  familiar  things  to  me  : 
Familiar  as  my  sleep,  or  want  of  money ; 
All  my  whole  body's  but  one  bruise,  with  beating. 
I  think  I  have  been  cudgeU'd  with  all  nations. 
And  almost  all  religions. 

2  Sto.  Embrace  him,  brother  !  this  man  is  valiant ; 
I  know  it  by  myself,  he's  valiant. 

1  Sw.  Captain,  thou  art  a  valiant  gentleman. 
To  bide  upon,  a  very  valiant  man. 

Bes.  My  equal  friends  o'  th'  sword,  I  must  request 
Your  hands  to  this. 

2  Sw.  'Tis  fit  it  should  be. 
Bes.  Boy, 

Get  me  some  wine,  and  pen  and  ink,  within. — 
Am  I  clear,  gentlemen  .' 

1  Sw.  Sir,  wheii  the  world 
Has  taken  notice  ofivhat  we  have  done. 

Make  much  of  your  body  ;  for  I'll  pawn  my  steel. 
Men  will  be  coyer  of  their  legs  hereafter. 

Bes.  I  must  request  you  go  along,  and  testify 
To  the  lord  Bacurius,  whose  foot  has  struck  me. 
How  you  find  my  cause. 

2  Sw.  We  will ;  and  tell  that  lord  he  must  be  ruled  ; 

Or  there  be  those  abroad  will  rule  his  lordship.  \_Exeunt. 

Scene. — The  house  of  Bacurius. 

Enter  Bacurius  and  a  Servant. 

Bac.  Three  gentlemen  without,  to  speak  with  me  ? 

Serv.  Yes,  sir. 

Bac.  Let  them  come  in. 

Enter  Bessus,  with  the  two  Swordmen. 

Serv.  They  are  enter'd,  sir,  already. 

Bac.  Now,  fellows,  your  business  ?     Are  these  the  gentlemen  ? 
Bes.  My  lord,  I  have  made  bold  to  bring  these  gentlemen, 
My  friends  o'  th'  sword,  along  with  me. 

7* 


130  BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 


Bac.  I  am 

Afraid  you'll  fight,  then. 

Bes.  My  good  lord,  I  will  not ; 

Your  lordship  is  mistaken ;  fear  not,  lord. 

Bac.  Sir,  I  am  sorry  for't. 

Bes.  I  ask  no  more 

In  honor. — Gentlemen,  you  hear  my  lord 
Is  sorry. 

Bac.  Not  that  I  have  beaten  you. 
But  beaten  one  that  will  be  beaten  ; 
One  whose  dull  body  will  require  a  lamming. 
As  surfeits  do  the  diet,  spring  and  fall. 
Now,  to  your  swordmen  : 
What  come  they  for,  good  Captain  Stockfish  ? 

Bes.  It  seems  your  lordship  has  forgot  my  name. 

Bac.  No,  nor  your  nature  neither ;  though  they  are 
Things  fitter,  I  must  confess,  for  anything 
Than  my  remembrance,  or  any  honest  man's  : 
What  shall  these  billets  do  ?  be  piled  up  in  my  wood-yard  ! 

Bes.   Your  lordship  holds  your  mirth  still,  heaven  continue  it ! 
But,  for  these  gentlemen,  they  come 

Bac.  To  swear  you  are  a  coward  .'     Spare  your  book  ; 
I  do  believe  it. 

Bes.  Your  lordship  still  draws  wide  ; 

They  come  to  vouch,  under  their  valiant  hands, 
I  am  no  coward 

Bac.  That  would  be  a  show,  indeed,  worth  seeing.     Sirs, 
Be  wise  and  take  money  for  this  motion,  travel  with't : 
And  where  the  name  of  Bessus  has  been  known. 
Or  a  good  coward  stirring,  'twill  yield  more  than 
A  tilting.     This  will  prove  more  beneficial  to  you, 
If  you  be  thrifty,  than  your  captainship. 
And  more  natural.     Men  of  most  valiant  hands, 
Is  this  true  ? 

2  Sw.  It  is  so,  most  renowned. 

Bac.  'Tis  somewhat  strange. 

1  Sw.  Lord,  it  is  strange,  yet  true. 
We  have  examined, /rom  your  lordship's  foot  there 
To  this  man's  head,  the  nature  of  the  beatings  ; 
And  we  do  find  his  honor  is  come  off 
Clean  and  sufficient.     This,  as  our  swords  shall  help  us. 

Bac.  You  are  much  bounden  to  your  bilbo-men  ; 
I  am  glad  you're  straight  again,  captain.     'Twere  good 
You  would  think  some  way  how  to  gratify  them  ; 
They  have  undergone  a  labor  for  you,  Bessus, 
Would  have  puzzled  Hercules  with  all  his  valor. 


BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER.  131 

2  Sw.  Your  lordship  must  understand  we  are  no  men 
Of  the  law,  that  take  pay  for  our  opinions  ; 
It  is  sufficient  we  have  cleared  our  friend. 

Bac.  Yet  there  is  something  due,  which  I,  as  touch'd 
In  conscience,  will  discharge. — Captain,  I'll  pay 
This  rent  for  you. 

Bes.  Spare  yourself,  my  good  lord  ; 
My  brave  friends  aim  at  nothing  but  the  virtue. 

Bac.  That's  but  a  cold  discharge,  sir,  for  the  pains. 

2  Sio.  Oh,  lord  !  my  good  lord  ! 

Bac.  Be  not  so  modest ;  I  will  give  you  something. 

Bes.  They  shall  dine  with  your  lordship,  that's  sufficient. 

Bac.  Something  in  hand  the  while.     You  rogues,  you  apple-squires. 
Do  you  come  hither,  with  your  bottled  valor. 
Your  windy  froth,  to  limit  out  my  beatings  ?  [A7cA-s  them. 

1  Sw.  I  do  beseech  your  lordship. 

2  Sw.  Oh,  good  lord  ! 

Bac.  'Sfoot,  what  a  bevy  of  beaten  slaves  are  here  ! — 
Get  me  a  cudgel,  sirrah,  and  a  tough  one.  \^Exit  servant. 

2  Sw.  More  of  your  foot,  I  do  beseech  your  lordship. 

Bac.  You  shall,  you  shall,  dog,  and  your  fellow  beagle. 

1  Sw.  0'  this  side,  good  my  lord. 

Bac.  Off  with  your  swords ; 

For  if  you  hurt  my  foot,  I'll  have  you  flead. 
You  rascals. 

1  Sw.         Mine's  off,  my  lord.  \.They  take  off  their  swords. 

2  Sw.  I  beseech  your  lordship,  stay  a  little  ;  my  strap  's  tied. 
Now,  when  you  please. 

Bac.  Captain,  these  are  your  valiant  friends  ; 
You  long  for  a  little  too  .' 

Bes.  I  am  very  well,  I  humbly  thank  your  lordship. 

Bac.  What's  that  in  your  pocket  hurts  my  toe,  you  mungrel .' 

2  Sw.  {takes  out  a  pistol).     Here  't  is,  sir ;  a  small  piece  of  artillery. 
That  a  gentleman,  a  dear  friend  of  your  lordship's. 
Sent  me  with  to  get  it  mended,  sir ;  for,  if  you  mark, 
The  nose  is  somewhat  loose. 

Bac.  A  friend  of  mine,  you  rascal .' 
I  was  never  wearier  of  doing  nothing. 
Than  kicking  tliese  two  foot-balls. 

Enter  Servant. 

Serv.  Here's  a  good  cudgel,  sir. 

Bac.  It  comes  too  late ;  I  am  weary  ;  pr'ythee. 
Do  thou  beat  them. 

2  Sw.  My  lord,  this  is  foul  play, 
I'faith,  to  put  afresh  mar  upon  us  : 
Men  are  but  men,  sir. 


132  BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 

Bac.  That  jest  shall  save  your  bones. — Captain,  rally  up  your  rotten  regi- 
ment, and  begone. — I  had  rather  thresh  than  be  bound  to  kick  these  rascals, 
till  they  cried,  "  ho  !"  Bessus,  you  may  put  your  hand  to  them  now,  and 
then  you  are  quit. — Farewell !  as  you  like  this,  pray  visit  me  again ;  't  will 
keep  me  in  good  health.  \_Exit. 

2  Sw.   He  has  a  devilish  hard  foot ;   I  never  felt  the  like. 

1  Sw.  JVor  I ;   and  yet,  I  am  sure,  I  have  felt  a  hundred. 

2  Sw.  If  he  kick  thus  i'  the  dog-days,  he  will  be  dry-foundred. 
What  cure  now,  captain,  besides  oil  of  bays  .' 

Bes.  Why,  well  enough,  I  warrant  you :  you  can  go  7 
2  Sio.  Yes,  Heaven  be  thank'd  !  but  I  feel  a  shrewd  ache ; 
Sure,  he's  sprang  my  huckle-bone. 

1  Sw.  I  ha'  lost  a  haunch. 
Bes.  A  little  butter,  friend,  a  little  butter  ; 

Butter  and  parsley  is  a  sovereign  matter : 
Probatum  est. 

2  Sw.  Captain,  we  must  request 
Your  hand  now  to  our  honors. 

Bes.  Yes,  marry,  shall  ye. 

And  then  let  all  the  world  come  ;  we  are  valiant 
To  ourselves,  and  there's  an  end. 

1  Sw.  Nay,  then,  we  must  be  valiant.     Oh,  my  ribs .' 

2  Sw.  Oh,  my  inside  ! 

A  plague  upo7i  these  sharp-toed  shoes ;  they're  murderers.  \_Exeunt. 


DUKE  AND  NO  DUKE.* 

An  intriguing  wife  and  her  companions  persuade  Mount-Ma- 
rine, a  foolish  gentleman  (for  the  purpose  of  keeping  him  in  town 
and  spending  his  money),  that  the  king,  besides  conferring  on 
him  a  variety  of  other  titles,  has  made  him  a  duke.  Afterwards, 
in  prosecution  of  the  same  design,  they  pretend  they  have  been 
ordered  to  unmake  him. 

Scene — A  room  in  the  house  of  Marine. 
t 
Enter  Longueville  to  Marine  and  others. 

Lo7ig.  Where's  Monsieur  Mount-Marine  .' 

Gentleman.  Why,  there  he  stands  ;  will  ye  aught  with  him  ? 

*  Taken  from  the  play  entitled  "  The  Noble  Gentleman." 


BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER.  133 

Long.  Yes. 

Good-day,  Monsieur  Marine ! 

.Mar.  Good-day  to  you. 

Long.  His  majesty  doth  recommend  himself 
Most  kindly  to  you,  sir,  and  hath,  by  me. 
Sent  you  this  favor  :  kneel  down  ;  rise  a  knight ! 

Mar.  I  thank  his  majesty  ! 

Long.  And  he  doth  further 

Request  you  not  to  leave  the  court  so  soon  ; 
For  though  your  former  merits  have  been  slighted. 
After  this  time  there  shall  no  office  fall 
Worthy  your  spirit  (as  he  doth  confess 
There's  none  so  great)  but  you  shall  surely  have  it. 

Gent,  {aside  to  Mar.)  Do  you  hear  ?     If  you  yield  yet,  you  are  an  ass. 

Mar.  I'll  show  my  service  to  his  majesty 
In  greater  things  than  these  :  but  for  this  small  one 
I  must  entreat  his  highness  to  excuse  me. 

Long.  I'll  bear  your  knightly  words  unto  the  king. 
And  bring  his  princely  answer  back  again.  ^  \_Exit 

Gent.  Well  said  !     Be  resolute  a  while  ;  I  know 
There  is  a  tide  of  honors  coming  on  ; 
I  warrant  you  !  • 

Enter  Beaufort. 

Beau.  Where  is  this  new  made  knight  ? . 

Mar.  Here,  sir. 

Beau.  Let  me  enfold  you  in  my  arms. 
Then  call  you  lord !  the  king  will  have  it  so  : 
Who  doth  entreat  your  lordship  to  remember 
His  message  sent  to  you  by  Longueville. 

Gent.  If  you  be  dirty,  and  dare  not  mount  aloft, 
You  may  yield  now  ;  I  know  what  I  would  do. 

Mar.  Peace !     I  will  fit  him. — Tell  his  majesty 
I  am  a  subject,  and  I  do  confess 
I  serve  a  gracious  prince,  that  thus  hath  heap'd 
Honors  on  me  without  desert ;  but  yet 
As  for  the  message,  business  urgeth  me, 
I  must  begone,  and  he  must  pardon  me. 
Were  he  ten  thousand  kings  and  emperors. 

Beau.  I'll  tell  him  so. 

Gent.  Why,  this  was  like  yourself !  [Aside. 

Beau.  As  he  hath  wrought  him,  'tis  the  finest  fellow 
That  e'er  was  Christmas-lord  !  he  carries  it 
So  truly  to  the  life,  as  though  he  were 
One  of  the  plot  to  gull  himself.  lExit. 


134  BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 


Gent.  Why,  so! 

You  sent  the  wisest  and  the  shrewdest  answer 
Unto  the  king,  I  swear,  my  honor'd  friend. 
That  ever  any  subject  sent  his  liege. 

Mar.  Nay,  now  I  know  I  have  him  on  the  hip, 
I'll  follow  it. 

Enter  Longueville. 

Long.  My  honorable  lord  ! 
Give  me  your  noble  hand,  right  courteous  peer, 
And  from  henceforward  be  a  courtly  earl ; 
The  king  so  wills,  and  subjects  must  obey : 
Only  he  doth  desire  you  to  consider 
Of  his  request. 

Gent.  Why,  faith,  you  are  well,  my  lord ; 
Yield  to  him. 

Mar.  Yield?  Why,  'twas  my  plot— 

Gent.  Nay, 
'Twas  your  wife's  plot. 

Mar.  To  get  preferment  by  it. 
And  thinks  he  now  to  pop  me  in  the  mouth 
But  with  an  earldom  ?     I'll  be  one  step  higher 

Gent.  It  is  the  finest  lord  ! .  I  am  afraid  anon 
He  will  stand  upon't  to  share  the  kingdom  with  him,  [Aside. 

Enter  Beaufort. 

Beau.  Where's  this  courtly  earl  ? 
His  majesty  commends  his  love  unto  you, 
And  will  you  but  now  grant  to  his  request. 
He  bids  you  be  a  duke,  and  choose  of  whence. 

Gent.  Why,  if  you  yield  not  now,  you  are  undone  ; 
What  can  you  wish  to  have  more,  but  the  kingdom  ? 

Mar.  So  please  his  majesty,  I  would  be  duke 
Of  Burgundy,  because  I  like  the  place. 

Beau.  I  know  the  king  is  pleased. 

Mar.  Then  will  I  stay. 
And  kiss  his  highness'  hand. 

Beau.  His  majesty 
Will  be  a  glad  man  when  he  hears  it. 

Long,  {aside  to  the  Gent.)  But  how  shall  we  keep  this  from  the  world's 
ear, 
That  some  one  tell  him  not,  he  is  no  duke  ? 

Gent.  We'll  think  of  that  anon. — Why,  gentlemen, 
Is  this  a  gracious  habit  for  a  duke  ? 
Each  gentle  body  set  a  finger  to. 


BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER.  135 


To  pluck  the  clouds  (of  these  his  riding  weeds) 

From  off  the  orient  sun,  off  his  best  clothes; 

I'll  pluck  one  boot  and  spur  off,  [They pluck  him. 

Long.  I  another. 

Beau.  I'll  pluck  his  jerkin  off. 

Gent.  Sit  down,  my  lord. — 

Both  his  spurs  off  at  once,  good  Longueville  ! 
And,  Beaufort,  take  that  scarf  off,  and  that  hat. 
Now  set  your  gracious  foot  to  this  of  mine  ; 
One  pluck  will  do  it ;  so  !     Off' with  the  other  ! 

Long.  Lo,  thus  your  servant  Longueville  doth  pluck 
The  trophy  of  your  former  gentry  off. — 
Off  with  his  jerkin,  Beaufort ! 

Gent.  Didst  thou  never  see 
A  nimble  tailor  stand  so  in  his  stockings. 
Whilst  some  friend  help'd  to  pluck  his  jerkin  off. 
To  dance  a  jig  ? 

Enter  Jaques. 

Long.  Here's  his  man  Jaques  come. 
Booted  and  ready  still. 

Jaques.  My  mistress  stays. 

Whj',  how  now,  sir  ?     What  does  your  worship  mean, 
To  pluck  your  grave  and  thrifty  habit  off.' 

Mar.  My  slippers,  Jaques  ! 

Long.  O,  thou  mighty  duke  ! 

Pardon  this  man,  that  thus  hath  trespassed. 
In  ignorance. 

Mar.  I  pardon  liim. 

Long.  Jaques ! 

His  grace's  slippers  ! 

Jaques.  Why,  what's  the  matter  ? 

Lang.  Footman,  he's  a  duke  : 
The  king  hath  rais'd  him  above  all  his  land. 

Enter  Lady  in  plain  apparel. 

Gent.  See,  see  my  mistress  ! 

Long,  {aside.)  Let's  observe  their  greeting. 

Lady.  Unto  your  will,  as  every  good  wife  ought, 
I  have  turn'd  all  my  thoughts,  and  now  am  ready. 

Mar.  Oh,  wife,  I  am  not  worthy  to  kiss 
The  least  of  all  thy  toes,  much  less  thy  thumb. 
Which  yet  I  would  be  bold  with  !    All  thy  counsel 
Hath  been  to  me  angelical ;  but  mine 


136  BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 

To  thee  hath  been  most  dirty,  like  my  mind. 
Dear  duchess,  I  must  stay. 

Lady.  What !  are  you  mad, 

To  make  me  dress  and  undress,  turn  and  wind  me, 
Because  you  find  me  pliant  ?     Said  I  not 
The  whole  world  should  not  alter  me,  if  once 
I  were  resolved  ?  and  now  you  call  me  duchess : 
Why,  what's  the  matter  ? 

Mar.  Lo  !  a  knight  doth  kneel. 

Lady.  A  knight .' 

Mar.  A  lord. 

Lady.  A  fool. 

Mar.  I  say  doth  kneel 

An  earl,  a  duke. 

Long.  In  drawers. 

Beau.  Without  shoe$. 

Lady.  Sure  you  are  lunatic  ! 

Gent.  No,  honor'd  duchess. 

If  you  dare  but  believe  your  servant's  truth, 
I  know  he  is  a  duke. 

Lady.  Your  grace's  pardon. 

•  »  *  *  « 

Long.  The  choicest  fortunes  wait  upon  our  duke  ! 

Gent.  And  give  him  all  content  and  happiness  ! 

Beau.  Let  his  great  name  live  to  the  end  of  time  ! 

Mar.   We  thank  you,  and  are  pleased  to  give  you  notice 
We  shall  at  fitter  times  wait  on  your  loves ; 
Till  when,  be  near  us. 

Long.  May  it  please  your  grace 
To  see  the  city  ?  't  will  be  to  the  minds 
And  much  contentment  of  the  doubtful  people. 

Mar.  I  am  determined  so.     Till  my  return, 
I  leave  my  honor'd  duchess  to  her  chamber. 
Be  careful  of  your  health  .'  I  pray  you  be  so. 

Gent.  Your  grace  shall  suflTer  us,  your  humble  servants, 
To  give  attendance,  fit  so  great  a  person. 
Upon  your  body  ? 

Mar.  .        I  am  pleased  so. — 

Long,  {aside)  Away,  good  Beaufort ;  raise  a  guard  sufficient 
To  keep  him  from  the  reach  of  tongues  ;  be  quick  ! 
And,  do  you  hear .'  remember  how  the  streets 
Must  be  disposed  for  cries  and  salutations  — 
Your  grace  determines  not  to  see  the  king  .' 

Mar.  Not  yet ;  I  shall  be  ready  ten  days  hence 
To  kiss  his  highness'  hand,  and  give  him  thanks. 
As  it  is  fit  I  should,  for  his  great  bounty. 
Set  forward,  gentlemen ! 


BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER.  137 

Groom.  Room  foi-  the  duke  there  !  \.They  issue  forth. 

Room  there  afore ;  sound  !  Room,  and  keep  your  places, 
And  you  may  see  enough  ;  keep  your  places  ! 

Long.  These  people  are  too  far  unmanner'd,  thus 
To  stop  your  grace's  way  with  multitudes. 

Mar.  Rebuke  them  not,  good  monsieur  :  '  Tis  their  loves. 
Which  I  will  answer,  if  it  please  my  stars 
To  spare  me  life  and  health. 

2   Gent.  God  bless  your  grace  ? 

Mar.  And  you,  with  all  my  heart. 

1  Gent.  Now  Heaven  preserve  you  ! 
Mar.  I  thank  you  too. 

2  Gent.  Now  Heaven  save  your  grace  ! 
Mar.  I  thank  you  all. 

Beau.  On  there  before  ! 

Mar.                                                              Stand,  gentlemen ! 
Stay  yet  a  while  ;  I'm  minded  to  impart 
My  love  to  these  good  people,  and  my  friends. 
Whose  love  smd  prayers  for  my  greatness 
Are  equal  in  abundance.     Note  me  well. 
And  with  my  words  my  heart ;  for  as  the  tree 

Long.  Your  grace  had  best  bewai'e  ;  't  will  be  inform'd 
Your  greatness  with  the  people. 

Mar.  I  had  more. 

My  honest  and  ingenuous  people :  but 
The  weight  of  business  hath  prevented  me ; 
1  am  cairdfrom  you  ;  But  this  tree  I  speak  of 
Shall  bring  forth  fruit,  I  hope,  to  your  content. 
And  so,  I  share  my  bowels  amongst  you  alt. 

All.  A  noble  duke  !  a  very  noble  duke  !  \^Exeunt 


Scene. — A  Hall  in  Marine's  House. 
Enter  Marine  and  Jaques. 

Mar.  Not  gone  unto  my  tenants,  to  relate 
My  grace,  and  honor,  and  the  mightiness 
Of  my  new  name,  which  would  have  struck  a  terror 
Through  their  coarse  doublets  to  their  very  hearts  .' 

Jaques.  Alas,  great  lord  and  master,  I  could  scarce 
With  safety  of  my  life  return  again 
Unto  your  grace's  house  :  and,  but  for  one 
That  had  some  mercy,  I  had  sure  been  hang'd. 

Alar.  My  house .' 

Jaques.  Yes,  sir,  this  house  ;  your  house  i'  th'  town. 

Mar.  Jaques,  we  are  displeased  ;  hath  it  no  name  1 


138  BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 


Jaques.  What  name  ? 

Mar.  Dull  rogue  !  what,  hath  the  king  bestow'd 
So  many  honors,  open'd  all  his  springs, 
And  shower'd  his  graces  down  upon  my  head, 
And  has  my  house  no  name  ?  no  title  yet  ? 
Btir gundy-house,  you  ass  ! 

Jaques.  Your  grace's  mercy  ! 

And  when  I  was  come  off,  and  had  recover'd 
BurgimJy -house,  I  durst  not  yet  be  seen, 
But  lay  ail  night,  for  fear  of  pursuivants, 
In  Burgundy  wash-house. 

Mar.  Oh,  sir, 'tis  well; 

Can  you  remember  now  ?     But,  Jaques,  know, 
Since  thy  intended  journey  is  so  crost, 
I  will  go  down  myself  this  morning. 

Jaques.  Sir  ? 

Mar.  Have  I  not  said  this  morning  ? 

Jaques.  But  consider 

That  nothing  is  prepared  yet  for  your  journey  ; 
Your  grace's  teams  not  here  to  draw  your  clothes, 
And  not  a  carrier  yet  in  town  to  send  by. 

Mar.  I  say,  once  more,  go  about  it. 
You're  a  wise  man  !  you'd  have  me  linger  time, 

Till  I  have  worn  these  clothes  out.     Will  you  go  ?  {Exit  Jaques. 

Make  you  ready,  wife  ! 

Enter  Lady. 

Lady.  I  am  so,  mighty  duke. 

Ji£ar.  Nay,  for  the  country. 

Lady.  How,  for  the  country  ? 

jifar.  Yes  ;  I  am  resolved 

To  see  my  tenants  in  this  bravery. 
Make  them  a  sumptuous  feast,  with  a  slight  show 
Of  Dives  and  Lazarus,  and  a  squib  or  two, 
And  so  return. 

Lady.  Why,  sir,  you  are  not  :nad  ? 

Mar.  How  many  dukes  have  you  known  mad  7    Pray  speak. 

Lady.  You  are  the  first,  sir,  and  I  hope  the  last : 
But  you  are  stark  horn-mad. 

jy[ar.  Forbear,  good  wife. 

Lady.  As  I  have  faith,  you're  mad  ! 
Sir,  you  shall  know- 
There  is  a  greater  bond  that  ties  me  here, 
Allegiance  to  the  king.     Has  he  not  heap'd 
Those  honors  on  you  to  no  other  end, 


BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER.  139 

But  to  stay  you  here  ?  and  shall  I  have  a  hand 
In  the  offending  such  a  gracious  prince  ? 

Enter  Beaufort,  Longueville,  Gentleman,  and  Maria. 

Lady.  Oh,  gentlemen,  we  are  undone  ! 

Long.  For  what  ? 

Lady.  This  gentleman,  the  lord  of  Lome,  my  husband, 
Will  be  gone  down  to  show  his  playfellows 
Where  he  is  gay. 

Beau.  What,  down  into  the  country  ? 

Lady.  Yes,  'faith.     Was  ever  fool  but  he  so  cross  ? 
I  would  as  fain  be  gracious  to  him, 
As  he  could  wish  me  ;  but  he  will  not  let  me. 
Speak  faithfully,  will  he  deserve  my  mercy  .' 

Long.  According  to  his  merits,  he  should  have 
A  guarded  coat,  and  a  great  wooden  dagger. 

Lady.  If  there  be  any  woman  that  doth  know 
The  duties  'twixt  a  husband  and  his  wife. 
Will  speak  but  one  word  for  him,  he  shall  'scape: 
Is  not  that  reasonable  .'     But  there's  none. 
{Aside)  Be  ready  therefore  to  pursue  the  plot 
We  had  against  a  pinch  ;  for  he  must  stay. 

Long,  {aside)  Wait  you  here  for  him,  whilst  I  go, 
And  make  the  king  acquainted  with  your  sport, 
For  fear  he  be  incensed  for  your  attempting 
Places  of  so  great  honor.  [Exit. 

Lady.  Go  ;  be  speedy. 

Mar.  What,  are  you  ready,  wife  ! 

Lady.  An  hour  ago. 

Mar.  I  cannot  choose  but  kiss  thy  royal  lips. 
Dear  duchess  mine,  thou  art  so  good  a  woman. 

Beau.  You'd  say  so,  if  you  knew  all,  goodman  Duckling  !  \_Aside. 

Clerimont.  {a  foolish  kinsman)  This  was  the  happiest  fortune  could  be- 
fall me !  IJlside. 
Now,  in  his  absence,  will  I  follow  close 
Mine  own  preferment ;  and  I  hope,  ere  long. 
To  make  my  mean  and  humble  name  so  strong 
As  my  great  cousin's  ;  when  tlie  world  shall  know 
I  bear  too  hot  a  spirit  to  live  low. 
The  next  spring  will  I  down,  my  wife  and  household ; 
I'll  have  my  ushers,  and  my  four  lactjueys. 
Six  spare  caroches  too:  But  mum,  no  more  ! 
What  I  intend  to  do,  I'll  keep  in  store. 

Mar.  Montez,  montez !  Jaques,  be  our  querry  ! 

Groom.  To  horse  there,  gentlemen,  and  fall  in  couples  ! 

Mar.  Come,  honor'd  duchess  ! 


140  BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER 

Enter  Longuevix,le. 

Long.  Stand,  thou  proud  man  ! 

Mar.  Thieves,  Jaques  !  raise  the  people  ! 

Long.  No  ;  raise  no  people  !  'Tis  the  king's  command 
Which  bids  thee  once  more  stand,  thou  haughty  man  .' 
Thou  art  a  monster  ;  for  thou  art  ungrateful ; 
And,  like  a  fellow  of  a  rebel  nature. 
Hast  flung  from  his  embraces  :  not  return'd 
So  much  as  thanks ;  and,  to  oppose  his  will, 
Resolved  to  leave  the  court,  and  set  the  realm 
A-fire,  in  discontent  and  open  action  . 
Therefore  he  bids  thee  stand,  thou  proud  man, 
Whilst,  with  the  whisking  of  my  sword  about, 
J  take  thy  honors  off:  This  first  sad  whisk 
Takes  off  thy  dukedom  ;  thou  art  but  an  earl. 

Mar.  You  are  mistaken,  Longueville. 

Long.  Oh,  'would  I  were  !     Tliis  second  whisk  divides 
Thy  earldom  from  thee  ;  thou  art  yet  a  baron. 

Mar.  JVo  more  whisks,  if  you  love  me,  Longueville! 

Long.  Two  whisks  are  past,  and  two  are  yet  behind 
Yet  all  must  come  :  but  not  to  linger  time, 
With  these  two  whisks  I  end.     Now,  Mount-Marine, 
For  thou  art  now  no  more,  so  says  the  king  ; 
And  I  have  done  his  highness'  will  with  grief. 

Mar.  Degraded  from  my  honors  .' 

Lo?ig.  'Tis  too  certain. 

Lady.  Oh,  my  poor  husband  !  what  a  heavy  fortune 
Is  fallen  upon  him  ! 

Beau.  Methinks  'tis  strange, 
That,  Heaven  forewarning  great  men  of  their  falls 
With  such  plain  tokens,  they  should  not  avoid  'em  : 
For  the  last  night,  betwixt  eleven  and  twelve. 
Two  great  and  hideous  blazing  stars  were  seen 
To  fight  a  long  hour  by  the  clock,  the  one 
Dress'd  like  a  duke,  the  other  like  a  king  ; 
Till  at  the  last  the  crowned  star  o'ercame. 

Gent.  Why  do  you  stand  so  dead.  Monsieur  Marine  ? 

Mar.   So  CcBsar  fell,  when  in  the  capitol 
They  gave  his  body  two-and-thirty  tvounds. 
Be 'warned,  all  ye  peers  ;  and,  by  my  fall. 
Hereafter  learn  to  let  your  wives  rule  all ! 

Marine  is  finally  permitted  to  think  himself  a  Duke,  but  only 
in  secret. 


BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER.  Ml 

Gent,  (aside  to  Marine)  Hark  ye,  sir  ; 
The  king  doth  know  you  are  a  duke. 

Mar.  No  !  does  he  ? 

Ge7it.  Yes ;  and  is  content  you  shall  be  ;  with  this  caution — 
That  none  know  it  but  yourself ;  for,  if  you  do 
He'll  take  't  away  by  act  ofparlia7ne7it. 

Mar.  Here  is  my  hand ;  and  whilst  I  live  or  breathe, 
JVo  living  wight  shall  know  I  am  a  duke. 

Gent.  Mark  me  directly,  sir  ;  your  wife  may  know  it. 

Mar.  Mayn't  Jaques  ? 

Gent.  Yes,  he  may. 

Mar.  Mayn't  my  cousin  ? 

Gent.  By  no  means,  sir,  if  you  love  life  and  state. 

Mar.  (out  loud)  Well  then,  know  all,  I'm  no  duke. 

Gent.  No,  I'll  swear  it. 

Mar.  Know  all,  I  am  no  duke. 

Lady.  What  say  you  .' 

Mar.  Jaques.         \^Aside  to  him 

Jaques.  Sir  ? 

Afar.  I  am  a  duke. 

Both.  Are  you  ? 

Mar.  Yes,  'faith ;  yes,  'faith. 

But  it  must  only  run  amongst  ourselves. 

Lady,  (^aside)  As  I  could  wish.     (Aloud)  Let  all  young  sprightly  wives. 
That  have  dull  foolish  coxcombs  to  their  husbands, 
Learn  by  me  all  their  duties,  what  to  do,  -^ 

Which  is,  to  make  'em  fools,  and  please  'em  too  ! 


142  ANONYMOUS. 


ANONYMOUS. 


THE  OLD  AND  YOUNG  COURTIER. 

This  is  a  banter  by  some  "  fine  old  Queen  Elizabeth  gentleman" 
(or  somebody  writing  in  his  character)  on  the  new  and  certainly 
far  less  respectable  times  of  James  the  First ;  an  age  in  which  a 
gross  and  unprincipled  court  took  the  place  of  a  romantic  one, 
and  greatness  became  confounded  with  worldliness ;  an  age  in 
which  a  lusus  natura.  was  on  the  throne, — in  which  Beaumont 
and  Fletcher  were  spoilt,  the  corruption  and  ruin  of  the  great 
Bacon  completed,  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  murdered,  and  a  pardon 
given  to  Lord  and  Lady  Somerset. 

However,  I  must  not  injure  the  pleasant  effect  of  an  old  song 
by  pitching  the  critical  prelude  in  too  grave  a  tone. 

It  is  here  printed,  as  given  with  corrections  in  Percy's  Reliques, 
from  an  ancient  black-letter  copy  in  the  Pepys  collection  of 
Ballads,  Garlands,  &c.,  preserved  at  Magdalen  College  in  Cam- 
bridge. This  Pepys  is  "  our  fat  friend"  of  the  Memoirs, — now  a 
man  of  as  jovial  a  reputation,  as  he  was  once  considered  staid  and 
formal.  He  must  have  taken  singular  delight  in  the  song  before 
us  ;  for  though  a  lover  of  old  times,  and  an  objector  upon  princi- 
ple to  new,  he  had  an  inclination  to  the  pleasures  of  both. 

The  song  is  admirable  ;  full  of  the  gusto  of  iteration,  and 
exquisite  in  variety  as  well  as  sameness.  It  repeats  the  word 
"  old "  till  we  are  enamored  of  antiquity,  and  prepared  to 
resent  the  impertinence  of  things  new.  What  a  blow  to  retiring 
poverty  is  the  "  thump  on  the  back  with  the  stone  !"  and  what  a 
climax  of  negative  merit  is  that  of  the  waiting-gentlewoman, 
who,  when  her  lady  has  dined,  "  lets  the  servants  not  eat !" 


ANONYMOUS.  143 


I  should  not  wonder  if  it  had  been  written  by  Decker,     It  has 
all  his  humor,  moral  sweetness,  and  flow. 

An  old  song  made  by  an  aged  old  pate 

Of  an  old  worshipful  gentleman,  who  had  a  great  estate, 

That  kept  a  brave  old  house  at  a  bountiful  rate. 

And  an  old  porter  to  relieve  the  poor  at  his  gate  ; 

Like  an  old  courtier  of  the  queeti'.i. 

And  the  queen's  old  courtier. 

With  an  old  lady,  whose  anger  one  tvord  assitages. 
That  every  quarter  paid  their  old  servants  their  wages. 
And  never  knew  what  belong'd  to  coachmen,  footmen,  nor  pages. 
But  kept  twenty  old  fellows  with  blue  coats  and  badges  ; 
Like  an  old  courtier,  &c. 

With  an  old  study  fiU'd  full  of  learned  old  books  ; 
With  an  old  reverend  chaplain,  you  might  know  him  by  his  looks  ; 
With  an  old  buttery  hatch,  worn  quite  otf  the  hooks ; 
And  an  old  kitchen,  that  maintain'd  half  a  dozen  old  cooks  ; 
Like  an  old  courtier,  &c. 

With  an  old  hall  hung  about  with  pikes,  guns,  and  bows ; 
With  old  swords,  and  bucklers,  that  had  borne  many  shrewd  blows, 
And  an  old  frieze  coat  to  cover  his  worship's  trunk  hose ; 
And  a  cup  of  old  sherry  to  comfort  his  copper  nose  ; 
Like  an  old  courtier,  &c. 

With  a  good  old  fashion,  when  Christmas  was  come, 
To  call  in  all  his  old  neighbors  with  bagpipe  and  drum. 
With  good  cheer  enough  to  furnish  every  old  room. 
And  old  liquor  able  to  make  a  cat  speak  and  a  man  dumb  ; 
Like  an  old  courtier,  &c. 

With  an  old  falconer,  huntsman,  and  a  kennel  of  hounds. 
That  never  hawk'd,  nor  hunted,  but  in  his  own  grounds. 
Who,  like  a  wise  man,  kept  himself  within  his  own  bounds, 
And  when  he  died,  gave  every  child  a  thousand  good  pounds ; 
Like  an  old  courtier,  &c. 

But  to  his  eldest  son  his  house  and  land  he  assign'd, 
Charging  him  in  his  will  to  keep  the  old  bountiful  mind. 
To  be  good  to  his  old  tenants,  and  to  his  neighbors  be  kind ; 
But  in  the  ensuing  ditty  you  shall  hear  how  he  was  inclin'd  : 

Like  a  young  courtier  of  the  king's. 

And  the  king's  young  courtier. 


144  ANONYMOUS. 


Like  a  flourishing  young  gallant,  newly  come  to  his  land, 
Who  keeps  a  brace  of  painted  madams  at  his  command. 
And  takes  up  a  thousand  pounds  upon  his  father's  land, 
And  gets  drunk  in  a  tavern,  till  he  can  neither  go  nor  stand ; 
Like  a  young  courtier,  &c. 

With  a  new-fangled  lady,  that  is  dainty,  nice,  and  spare. 
Who  never  knew  what  belong'd  to  good  house-keeping,  or  care, 
Who  buys  gaudy-color'd  fans  to  play  with  a  wanton  air, 
Jlnd  seven  or  eight  different  dressings  of  other  women's  hair  ; 
Like  a  young  courtier,  &c. 

With  a  new-fashion'd  hall,  built  where  the  old  one  stood, 
Hung  round  with  new  pictures,  that  do  the  poor  no  good  ; 
With  a  fine  marble  chimney,  wherein  burns  neither  coal  nor  wood, 
And  a  new  smooth  shovel-board,  whereon  no  victuals  ne'er  stood  ; 
Like  a  young  courtier,  &c. 

With  a  new  study,  stuft  full  of  pamphlets  and  plays, 
A7id  a  new  chaplain,  that  swears  faster  than  he  prays  ; 
With  a  new  buttery  hatch,  that  opens  once  in  four  or  five  days, 
And  a  new  French  cook,  to  devise  fine  kickshaws  and  toys ; 
Like  a  young  courtier,  &c. 

With  a  new  fashion,  when  Christmas  is  drawing  on, 
On  a  new  journey  to  London  straight  we  all  must  begone, 
And  leave  none  to  keep  house  but  our  new  porter  John, 
Who  relieves  the  poor  with  a  thump  on  the  back  with  a  stone , 
Like  a  young  courtier,  &c. 

With  a  new  gentleman  usher,  whose  carriage  is  complete ; 
With  a  new  coachman,  footmen,  and  pages  to  carry  up  the  meat; 
With  a  waiting  gentlewoman,  whose  dressing  is  very  neat. 
Who,  when  her  lady  has  din'd,  lets  the  servants  not  eat  ; 
Like  a  young  courtier,  &c. 

With  new  titles  of  honor  bought  with  his  father's  old  gold. 
For  which  sundry  of  his  ancestors'  old  manors  are  sold  ; 
And  this  is  the  course  most  of  our  new  gallants  hold. 
Which  makes  that  good  house-keeping  is  now  grown  so  cold. 

Among  our  young  courtiers  of  the  king. 

Or  the  king's  young  courtiers. 


RANDOLPH.  145 


RANDOLPH. 

BORN,    1605 DIED,   1634. 


Thomas  Randolph,  who  died  fellow  of  Trinity  College,  Cam- 
bridge, aged  twenty-nine,  was  one  of  the  favorite  disciples  of 
Ben  Jonson.  He  had  a  vein  of  comedy  gayer  and  more  natural 
than  his  master's,  which  might  have  rendered  him  a  favorite  with 
posterity,  had  he  outlived  the  influence  of  his  training.  He  had 
as  much  leai'ning  for  his  time  of  life,  more  animal  spirits,  and 
appears  to  have  been  veiy  amiable.  His  brother  collected  and 
published  his  writings,  with  an  inti'oduction  full  of  love  and  re- 
spect. He  lost  a  finger  once  in  endeavoring  to  part  two  combat- 
ants ;  and,  instead  of  bewailing  the  mishap,  turned  it  into  a  sub- 
ject for  epigram,  and  said  he  hoped  to  "  shake  hands  with  it  in 
heaven." 

Randolph's  best  known  play,  the  Muses'  Looking-GIass,  which 
is  to  be  found  in  late  collections  of  the  old  drama,  is  singularly 
full  of  life,  considering  it  is  one  continued  allegory,  and  didactic 
withal.  And  his  dramatic  pastoral,  called  Amynias,  or  the  Ln- 
jwssible  Dowry  (from  an  imaginary  fairy  investiture),  deserves  to 
be  known  quite  as  well,  for  its  gaiety  and  graceful  fancy.  If  he 
had  but  understood  "  the  art  of  arts,  the  art  to  blot,"  he  would 
have  been  popular  to  this  day.  But  who  did,  in  his  time,  even 
the  greatest  ?  Who  thoroughly  understands  it  any  time  ?  And 
what  heaps  of  inferior  poets  have  since  gone,  and  are  going,  to 
oblivion,  who  took  him  doubtless  for  some  obsolete  gentleman, 
oppressed  with  a  quaint  love  of  talking,  while  they  fancied  their 
own  garrulity  to  be  the  right  "  soul  of  wit  ?" 

In  the  following  scene  from  the  Muses'  Looking-Glass,  the 
poet,  under  the   Greek  names  of  Deilus,   Aphobus,   and   Colax, 

S 


146  RANDOLPH. 


presents  us  with  caricatures  of  Fear,  Rashness,  and  Flattery. 
The  excessive  double-dealing  of  Flattery,  in  his  asides  to  the  two 
others,  is  very  ludicrous  ;  and  the  extravagances  of  Fear  have  a 
foundation  in  truth,  not  unworthy  to  stand  side  by  side  with  the 
honest  poltrooneries  of  the  heroin  John  Paul.'^ 

FEAR,  RASHNESS,  AND  FLATTERY. 

Deilus  undergoes  paroxysms  of  terror  from  the  near  conversation  of 
Aphobus. — CoLAx  {aside)  adtdates  them  both  ;  hut  ultimately  rids 
himself  of  their  company,  on  finding  that  he  gets  nothing  by  it. 

Deilus.  Good  Aphobus,  no  more  such  terrible  stories : 
I  would  not  for  a  world  lie  alone  to-night : 
I  shall  have  such  strange  dreams  ! 

Aphobus.  What  can  there  be 

That  I  should  fear  ?     The  gods  ?  if  they  be  good, 
'Tis  sin  to  fear  them  :  if  not  good,  no  gods ; 
And  then  let  them  fear  me.     Or  are  they  devils 
That  must  affright  me  ! 

Deil.  Devils  !  where,  good  Aphobus  ? 

I  thought  there  was  some  conjuring  abroad  ; 
'  Tis  such  a  terrible  toiiid .'     0  here  it  is  ; 
Now  it  is  here  again  !     O  still,  still,  still. 

Apho.  What  is  the  matter  ? 

Deil.  Still  it  follows  me  ! 

The  thing  in  black,  behind  ;  soon  as  the  sun 
But  shines,  it  haunts  ?ne  ?     Gentle  spirit,  leave  me  ! 
Cannot  you  lay  him  .'     What  ugly  looks  it  has  ! 
With  eyes  as  big  as  saucers,  nostrils  wider 
Than  barbers'  basons  / 

Apho.                            It  is  nothing,  Deilus, 
But  your  weak  fancy  that  from  every  object 
Draws  arguments  of  fear.     This  terrible  black  thing 

Deil.  Where  is  it,  Aphobus  ? 

Apho.  Is  but  your  shadow,  Deilus. 

Deil.  And  should  we  not  fear  shadows  7 

Apho.  No,  why  should  we  .' 

Deil.    Who  hnows  but  they  come  leering  after  us. 
To  steal  away  the  substance  .?'     Watch  him,  Aphobus. 

Apho.  I  fear  nothing. 

Colax.  {aside  to  Aphobus)  I  do  commend  your  valor. 
That  fixes  your  great  soul  fast  as  a  centre, 
Not  to  be  mov'd  with  dangers.     Let  slight  cock-boats 

*   Vide  Mr.  Carlyle's  admirable  translation  of  Tales  from  the  German. 


RANDOLPH.  147 


Be  shaken  with  a  wave,  while  you  stand  firm 
Like  an  undaunted  rock,  whose  constant  hardness 
Reheats  the  fury  of  the  raging  sea, 
Dashing  it  into  froth.     Base  fear  doth  argue 
A  low  degenerate  soul. 

Deil.  {In  ansicc?-  to  x^phobus)  Now  1  fear  everything. 

Colax.   {aside  to  Dei-lvs)  '  Tis  your  discretion.     Everything  has  dan- 
ger, 
And  therefore  everything  is  to  be  feared. 
I  do  applaud  this  wisdom.     'Tis  a  symptom 
Of  wary  providence.     His  too  confident  rashness 

{Secretly  making  a  gesture  towards  Aphobus. 
Argues  a  stupid  ignorance  in  the  soul, 
A  blind  and  senseless  judgment.     Give  mc  fear 
To  man  the  fort ;  'tis  such  a  circumspect 
And  wary  sentinel ;  but  daring  valor, 
Uncapable  of  danger,  sleeps  securely. 
And  leaves  an  open  entrance  to  his  enemies. 

Deil.    What,  are  they  landed  7 

Apho.  Wiio  ? 

-Oei7.  The  enemies 

That  Colax  talks  of. 

•Apho.  If  they  be,  I  care  not ; 

Though  they  be  giants  all,  and  arm'd  with  thunder. 

Deil.  Why,  do  you  not  fear  thunder  ? 

Apho.  Thunder  ?     No  ! 

No  more  than  squibs  and  crackers. 

Deil.  Squibs  and  crackers  ! 

I  hope  there  be  none  here!  s'lid,  squibs  and  crackers! — 
The  mere  epitomes  of  the  gunpowder  treason! 
Faux  in  a  lesser  volume  .'^ 

Apho.  Let  fools  gaze 

At  bearded  stars.     It  is  all  one  to  me, 
As  if  they  had  been  shav'd.     Thus,  thus  would  I 
Out-beard  a  meteor  ;  for  I  might  as  well 
Name  it  a  prodigy  when  my  candle  blazes. 

Deil.  Is  there  a  comet,  say  you?    Nay,  I  saw  it; 
It  reached  from  Paul's  to  Charing,  and  portends 
Some  certain  imminent  danger  to  the  inhabitants 
'Twixt  those  two  places.     I'll  go  get  a  lodging 
Out  of  its  influence.^ 

Colax.  Will  that  serve  you  .' — I  fear 

It  threatens  general  ruin  to  the  kingdom. 

Deil.  I'll  to  some  other  country. 

Colax.  There  is  danger 

To  cross  the  seas. 


.48  RANDOLPH. 


Deil.  Is  there  no  way,  good  Colax, 

To  cross  the  sea  by  land  ?     O  the  situation, 
The  horrible  situation  of  an  island  ! 

Colax.  {aside  to  Aphobus)  You,  sir,  are  far  above  such  frivolous  thoughts. 
You  fear  not  death. 

Apho.  Not  I. 

Col.  Not  sudden  death. 

Apho.  No  more  than  sudden  sleeps.    Sir,  I  dare  die. 

Deil.  I  dare  not.     Death  to  me  is  terrible. 
I  will  not  die.* 

Apho.  How  can  you,  sir,  prevent  it  1 

Deil.   Why,  I  will  kill  myself. 

Col.  A  valiant  course ; 

And  the  right  way  to  prevent  death  indeed. 

Your  spirit  {aside  to  Deilus)  is  true  Roman  !— But  yours  {aside  to  Apho- 
bus) greater. 
That  fears  not  death,  nor  yet  the  manner  of  it. 
{Aloud')  Should  heaven  fall 

Apho.  Why,  then  we  should  have  larks. 

Deil.  I  shall  never  eat  larks  again  while  I  breathe. 

Col.  Or  should  the  earth  yawn  like  a  sepulchre. 
And  with  an  open  throat  swallow  you  quick  .' 

Apho.  '  Twould  save  me  the  expenses  of  a  grave. 

Deil.  I  had  rather  trouble  my  executors  by  th'  half. 

Apho.  Cannons  to  me  are  pop-guns. 

Deil.  Pop-guns  to  me 

Are  cannons.    The  report  will  strike  me  dead. 

Apho.  A  rapier's  but  a  bodkin. 

Deil.  But  a  bodkin  ! 

Ifs  a  most  dangerous  weapon.     Since  I  read 
Of  Julius  Caesar's  death,  I  durst  not  venture 
Into  a  tailor's  shop  for  fear  of  bodkins. 

Apho.  0  that  the  valiant  giants  should  again 
Rebel  against  the  gods,  and  besiege  heaven, 
So  I  might  be  their  leader. 

Col.  {aside  to  Aphobus)  Had  Enceladus 
Been  half  so  valiant,  Jove  had  been  his  prisoner. 

Apho.  Why  should  we  think  there  be  such  things  as  dangers  ? 
Scylla,  Charybdis,  Python,  are  but  fables  ; 
Medea's  bull  and  dragon  very  tales  ; 
Sea-monsters,  serpents,  all  poetical  figments  ; 
Nay,  hell  itself,  and  Acheron,  mere  inventions  ; 
Or  were  they  true,  as  they  are  false,  should  I  be 
So  tim'rous  as  to  fear  these  bug-bear  Harpies, 
Medusas,  Ce.-.taurs,  Gorgons  ? 

Deil.  0  good  Aphobus, 


RANDOLPH.  149 


Leave  conjuring,  or  take  me  into  the  circle. 
What  shall  I  do,  good  Colax  ? 

Col.  Sir,  walk  in. 

There  is,  they  say,  a  looking-glass,  a  strange  one 
Of  admirable  virtues,  that  will  render  you 
Free  from  enchantments. 

Dcil.  How  !  a  looking-glass  ? 

Dost  think  I  can  endure  it  ?     Why  there  lies 
Ji  man  within t  in  ambush  to  entrap  me. 
I  did  but  lift  my  hand  up,  and  he  presently 
Catch'd  at  it. 

Col.  'T  was  the  shadow,  sir,  of  yourself; 

Trust  me,  a  mere  reflection. 

JDeil.  {mustering  up  all  his  forces)  I  will  trust  thee. 

Apho.  What  glass  is  that .' 

Col.  {aside  to  Aphobus)  A.  trick  to  fright  the  idiot 
Out  of  his  wits  ;  a  glass  so  full  of  dread, 
Rend'ring  to  the  eye  such  horrid  spectacles 
As  would  amaze  even  you,  sir.     I  do  think 
Your  optic  nerves  would  shrink  in  the  beholding. 
This  if  your  eye  endure,  I  will  confess  you 
The  prince  of  eagles. 

Apho.  Look  to  it,  eyes:  if  ye  refuse  this  right, 
My  nails  shall  damn  you  to  eternal  night. 

Col.  {aside  to  himself)  Seeing  no  hope  of  gain,  I  pack  them  hence. 
'Tis  gold  gives  flattery  all  her  eloquence. 

'   TVho  knows  but  they  come  leering  after  us 
To  steal  away  the  substance  1 

A  very  poetical  apprehension,  and  very  poetically  expressed. 
The  word  leering  has  a  fine  comic  mystery  in  it ;  which  is  always 
an  aggravation  of  horror,  upon  the  principle  of  extremes  meet- 
ing: : — malice  in  benevolence. 


o 


*  Squibs  and  crackers  ! 

The  mere  epitomes  of  the  gunpotvdcr  treason  ! 
Faux  in  a  lesser  volume  ! 

The  wording  of  this  extravagance  is  just  as  if  Charles  Lamb 
had  written  it.  But  indeed,  in  the  pregnancy  as  well  as  coloring 
of  his  style,  he  was  one  of  our  old  wits  come  back  again. 

*  Til  go  get  a  lodging 
Out  of  its  influence. 


150  -  RANDOLPH. 


The  caricatures  of  Fear,  after  all,  are  not  caricatures.  It  is 
the  only  passion  that  cannot  be  overdrawn.  Multitudes  of  people 
in  civilized  countries  have  been  known  to  do  things  as  ridiculous 
as  this  ;  have  believed  in  the  end  of  the  world  because  a  mad- 
man announced  it,  and  gone  out  of  town  to  avoid  an  earthquake 
next  Wednesday ! 

4  <'  1  will  not  fZJe."— Here  again  there  is  no  caricature.  These 
ridiculous  words  have  too  often  become  terrible  to  the  hearers,  in 
the  mouth  of  poor  angry  mortality.  What  Deilus  also  says  after- 
wards of  his  killing  himself  to  avoid  death,  has  not  only  the 
authority  of  Ovid — 

Mortisque  timorem 
Morte  fugit — 

And  from  the  fear  of  Death 
Flies  into  death's  own  arms ; 

but  is  founded  in  the  depths  of  the  secret  of  terror. 


PRETENDED  FAIRIES  ROBBING  AN  ORCHARD. 

DoRYLAs  has  induced  Jocastus,  a  foolish  country  gentleman,  to  believe 
him  to  be  Oberon,  Prince  of  the  Fairies  ;  and,  in  company  with  some 
other  young  rogues,  takes  advantage  of  his  credulity  to  rob  his 
orchard. 

Enter  Dorylas,  with  a  bevy  of  Fairies. 

Dor.  (to  his  companions)  How  like  you  my  Grace .'    Is  not  my  coun- 
tenance 
Royal  and  full  of  majesty  ?     Walk  I  not 
Like  the  young  Prince  of  Pygmies  ?     Ha,  my  knaves ! 
We'll  fill  our  pockets.     Look,  look  yonder,  elves  : 
Would  not  yon  apples  tempt  a  better  conscience 
Than  any  we  have  to  rob  an  orchard .'     Ha  ! 
Fairies,  like  nymphs  with  child,  must  have  the  things 
They  long  for.     You  sing  here  a  fairy  catch 
In  that  strange  tongue  I  taught  you,  while  myself 
Do  climb  the  trees.     {He  climbs.)     Thus  princely  Oberon 
Ascends  his  throne  of  state. 


RANDOLPH.  151 


Chorus  of  Fairies. 

JVgs  heata  Faitni  proles,^ 
Qriibus  non  est  magna  moles, 
Quamvis  Lunam  incolamus, 
Hortos  sccpe  frequentamus. 

Furto  cuncta  magis  bella, 
t\irto  dulcior  puella, 
Furto  omnia  decora, 
Furto  poma  dulcior  a. 

Cum  mortales  lecto  jacent, 
JVobis  poma  node  placent ; 
Ula  tamen  sunt  iugrata, 
JVisi  furto  sint  parata. 

Enter  Jocastus  and  his  servant  Bromius. 

Joe.  What  divine  noi.'?e,  fraught  with  immortal  harmony. 
Salutes  mine  ears  ! 

Brotn.  Why,  this  immortal  harmony 

Rather  salutes  your  orchard.     These  young  rascals  {Aside), 
These  peascod  shellers,  do  so  cheat  my  master. 
We  cannot  have  an  apple  in  the  orchard. 

But  straight  some  fairy  longs  for  't.  {To  his  master.)  Well,  if  I 
Might  have  my  will,  a  whip  again  should  jerk  'em 
Info  their  old  mortality. 

Joe.  Dar'st  thou,  screech-owl. 

With  thy  rude  croaking  interrupt  their  music, 
Whose  melody  has  made  the  spheres  to  lay 


[We,  the  Fairies,  blithe  and  antic, 
Of  dimensions  not  gigantic, 
Though  the  moonshine  mostly  keep  us. 
Oft  in  orchards  frisk  and  peep  us. 

Stolen  sweets  are  always  sweeter. 
Stolen  kisses  much  completer, 
Stolen  looks  are  nice  in  chapels, 
Stolen,  stolen  be  your  apples. 

When  to  bed  the  world  are  bobbing, 
Then's  the  time  for  orchard  robbing; 
Yet  the  fruit  were  scarce  worth  peeling 
Were  it  not  for  stealing,  stealing.] 


152  RANDOLPH. 


Their  heavenly  lutes  aside,  only  to  listen 
To  their  more  charming  notes  ? 

Brom.  Say  what  you  will, 

I  say  a  cudgel  now  were  excellent  music. 

Chorus  of  Fairies. 

Oberpn,  descciide  citus, 
JVe  cogaris  hinc  invitus. 
Canes  audio  Idtrantes, 
Et  mortales  vigilantes. 

Joe.  Prince  Oberon  !     I  heard  his  Grace's  name. 

Bro?n.  0  ho  !  I  spy  his  Grace.     Most  noble  Prince, 
Come  down,  or  I'll  so  pelt  your  Grace  with  stones. 
That  I  believe  your  Grace  was  ne'er  so  pelted. 
Since  'twas  a  Grace. 

Dor.  Bold  mortal,  hold  thy  hand. 

Brom.  Immortal  thief,  come  down,  or  I  will  fetch  you.* 
Methinks  it  should  impair  your  Grace's  honor 
To  steal  poor  mortals'  apples.     Now,  have  at  you. 

Dor.  Jocastus,  we  are  Oberon  ;  and  we  thought 
That  one  so  near  to  us  as  you  in  favor. 
Would  not  have  suffer'd  this  profane  rude  groom 
Thus  to  impair  our  royalty. 

Joe.  Gracious  Prince, 

The  fellow  is  a  fool,  and  not  yet  purg'd 
From  his  mortality. 

Dor.  Did  we,  out  of  love 

And  our  entire  affection,  of  all  orchards 
Choose  yours,  to  make  it  happy  by  our  dances. 
Light  airy  measures  and  fantastic  rings. 
And  you,  ungrateful  mortal,  thus  requite  us. 
All  for  one  apple  ! 

Joe.  {to  Bromius)  Villain,  thou  hast  undone  me  ! 
His  Grace  is  much  incens'd. 

Dor.  You  know,  Jocastus, 

Our  Grace  have  orchards  of  our  own,  more  precious 
Than  mortals  can  have  any  ;  aud  we  sent  you 
A  present  of  them  t'other  day. 

Joe.  'Tis  right: 

Your  Grace's  humble  servant  must  acknowledge  it. 


[Oberon,  descend,  we  pray  thee. 
Lest  a  swift  stick  over-lay  thee. 
Dogs  are  on  the  watch,  and  barking. 
Eyes  of  mortals  anti-larking.] 


RANDOLPH.  153 


Brom.  Some  of  his  own,  Pm  sure. 

Dor.  I  must  confess 

Their  outside  look'd  something  like  yours  indeed  ; 
But  then  the  taste  more  relisVd  of  eternity. 
The  same  with  nectar 

Joe  Your  Grace  is  welcome 

To  anything  I  have.     Nay,  gentlemen  (to  the  others). 
Pray  do  not  you  spare  neither. 

Elves.  Tititati. 

Joe.  What  say  these  mighty  peers,  great  Oberon  .' 

Dor.  They  cannot  speak  this  language,  but  in  ours 
They  thank  you  ;  and  they  say  they  will  have  none. 

Elves.   Tititati,  Tititati. 

Joe.  What  say  they  now  .' 

Dor.  They  do  request  you  now 

To  grant  them  leave  to  dance  a  fairy  ring  • 

About  your  servant,  and  for  his  offence 
Pinch  him.     Do  you,  the  while,  command  the  traitor 
Not  dare  to  stir,  nor  once  presume  to  mutter. 

Joe.  Traitor,  for  so  Prince  Oberon  deigm  to  call  thee 
Stir  not,  nor  mutter. 

Brojn.  To  be  thus  abus'd  ! 

Joe.  Ha  !  mutterest  thou  .' 

Brum.  I  have  deserv'd  bette.r 

Joe.  Still  mutterest  thou  ? 

Brom.  I  see  I  must  endure  it. 

Joe.  Yet  mutterest  til ou  .'     Now,  noble  lords,  begin, 
When  it  shall  please  your  honors. 

Dor.  Tititati, 

Our  noble  friend  permits  Tititatee  ; 
Do  you  not,  sir  .' 

Joe.  How  should  I  say  I  do  .' 

Dor.   Tititathe. 

Joe.  Tititath,  my  noble  lords.' 

{^Fairies  dance  about  Bromius,  and  pineh  and  serateh  him  in  chorus.) 


Quoniam  per  te  violamur. 
Ungues  hie  experiamur  : 
Statim  dices  tibi  datam 
Cutem  valde  variatam. 


[Since  by  thee  comes  profanation 
Taste  thee,  lo  !  excoriation  : 
Thou  shalt  own,  that  in  a  twinkling 
Thou  hast  got  a  pretty  crinkling.] 


154  RANDOLPH. 


Joe.   Tititati  to  your  lordship  for  this  excellent  music. 

Brom.  {aside)  This  'tis  to  have  a  coxcomb  for  one's  master. 

Joe.  Still  mutterest  thou  ?  \^Exit  Bromius. 

(DoRYLAs  descends  from  the  tree  ;  Jocastvs  falls  on  his  knees.) 

Dor.  Arise  up.  Sir  Jocastus,  our  dear  knight. 
Now  hang  the  hallow'd  bell  about  his  neck ; 
We  call  it  a  mellisonant  tingle-tangle, 
{Aside)  (A  sheep-bell  stolen  from  his  own  fat  wether) 
The  ensign  of  his  knighthood.     Sir  Jocastus, 
We  call  to  mind  we  promis'd  you  long  since 
The  President  of  our  Dances'  place ;  we  are  now 
Pleas'd  to  confirm  it  on  you.     Give  him  there 
His  staff  of  dignity. 

Joe.  Your  Grace  is  pleas'd 

To  honor  your  poor  liegeman. 

Dor.  Now  be  gone. 

Joe.  Farewell  unto  your  Grace  and  eke  to  you. 
Tititatte,  my  noble  lords  ;  farewell.  \_Exit. 

Dor.   Titiiatee, — my  noble  fool ;  farewell. 

*  :t!  *  *  * 

So  we  are  clean  got  off.     Come,  noble  Peers 
Of  Faery,  come  attend  our  Royal  Grace  ; 
Let's  go  and  share  our  fruits  with  our  Queen  Mab, 
And  the  other  dairy-maids ;  where  of  this  theme 
We  will  discourse  amidst  our  cakes  and  cream. 

Chorus  of  Fairies. 
Cum  tot poma  habeamus , 
Triumphos  IcBtijam  canamus. 
Faufios  ego  credam  ortos, 
Tantum  ut  frequentant  hortos. 

I  dotnum,  Oberoii,  ad  illas 
Qua  nos  manent  nunc  ancillas ; 
Quarum  osculemur  sinum. 
Inter  poma,  lac,  etvinum.* 

[Now  for  all  this  store  of  apples. 
Laud  we  with  the  voice  of  chapels. 
Elves,  methinks,  were  ordain'd  solely 
To  keep  orchard-robbing  holy. 

Home,  then,  home  ;  let's  recreate  us 
With  the  maids,  whose  dairies  wait  us  ; 
Kissing  them,  with  pretty  grapples, 
All  midst  junkets,  wine,  and  apples.] 


RANDOLPH.  153 


1  "  JVos beata  Fauni  proles"  fcc— There  is  something  very  charm- 
ing in  these  Latin  rhymes.  They  make  one  wish  (in  spite  of 
the  danger  of  being  charged  with  a  Gothic  taste)  that  Horace  and 
Catullus, — say  ratlier  Ovid, — had  written  in  rhyme  as  well  as 
blank  verse,  and  so  given  us  a  fairy  music  with  some  of  his 
words,  beyond  the  power  of  his  lutes  and  lyres  to  hand  down. 

2  "  Immortal  thief, come  down"  &c. — It  must  be  confessed  that  Bro- 
mius  talks  too  well  for  a  servant.  So,  for  that  matter,  does  his 
master,  for  so  foolish  a  country-gentleman.  But  we  are  to  recol- 
lect that  the  play  is  a  pastoral  with  an  Arcadian  licence. 

^ ''  Tititatee,  my  noble  lords,"  &Lc.—M.o\\hvQ  himself  would  have 
enjoyed  this  extravagance.     It  is  indeed  quite  in  his  manner. 

*  "  Inter  potiia,  lac,  et  vinum."—A  line  that  shuts  up  the  scene  in 
"  measureless  content."  Thanks  be  to  the  witty  scholar,  Thomas 
Randolph,  for  an  addition  to  the  stock  of  one's  pleasant  fancies. 


156  SUCKLING. 


SUCKLING. 

BORN,   1609 DIED,  1641. 


Sir  John  Suckling,  son  of  the  Comptroller  of  the  Household  to 
Charles  the  First,  was  so  true  a  wit,  and  hit  so  delightful  a  point 
between  the  sentiment  of  the  age  of  Elizabeth  and  the  gallantry 
of  the  Stuarts,  that  it  is  provoking  to  be  unable  to  give  some  of 
his  best  pieces  at  all  in  a  publication  like  the  present,  and  only 
one  or  two  short  ones  without  mutilation.  He  comes  among  a 
herd  of  scented  fops  with  careless  natural  grace,  and  an  odor  of 
morning  flowers  upon  him.  You  know  not  which  would  have 
been  most  delighted  with  his  compliments,  the  dairy-maid  or  the 
duchess.  He  was  thrown  too  early  upon  a  town  life  ;  otherwise 
a  serious  passion  for  some  estimable  woman,  which  (to  judge 
from  his  graver  poetry)  he  was  very  capable  of  entertaining,  might 
have  been  the  salvation  of  him.  As  it  was,  he  died  early,  and, 
it  is  said,  not  happily  ;  but  this  may  have  been  the  report  of 
envy  or  party-spirit ;  for  he  was  a  great  loyalist.  It  is  probable, 
however,  that  he  excelled  less  as  a  partizan  than  as  a  poet  and  a 
man  of  fashion.  He  is  said  to  have  given  a  supper  to  the  ladies 
of  his  acquaintance,  the  last  course  of  which  consisted  of  milli- 
nery and  trinkets.  The  great  Nelson's  mother  was  a  Suckling 
of  the  same  stock,  in  Norfolk. 

Steele,  in  the  TatJer  (No.  40),  not  undeservedly  quotes  a  pas- 
sage from  Suckling,  side  by  side  with  one  about  Eve  from  Mil- 
ton. It  is  in  his  tragedy  of  Brennoralt,  where  a  lover  is  looking 
on  his  sleeping  mistress  : — 

"  Her  face  is  like  the  milky  way  i'  the  sky, 
A  meeting  of  gentle  lights  without  a  name," 


SUCKLING.  15"* 


Feelings  like  these  enabled  his  fair  friends  to  put  up  with  such 
pleasant  contradictions  to  sentiment  as  the  following  : — 

THE  CONSTANT  LOVER. 

Out  upon  it,  I  have  lov'd 

Three  whole  days  together  ; 
And  am,  like  to  love  three  more, 
If  it  prove  fair  weather. 

Time  shall  moult  away  his  wings. 

Ere  he  shall  discover 
In  the  whole  wide  world  again 
Such  a  constant  lover. 

But  the  spite  on't  is,  no  praise 

Is  due  at  all  to  me  ; 
Love  with  me  had  made  no  stays, 

Had  it  any  been  but  she. 

Had  it  any  been  but  she. 

And  that  very  face. 
There  had  been  at  least  ere  this 

A  dozen  in  her  place.' 

'  "  A  dozen  i?i  her  place."— This  song  is  the  perfection  of  easy, 
witty,  light  yet  substantial  writing.  There  is  no  straining  after 
thoughts  or  images,  and  not  a  word  out  of  its  place,  or  more  words 
than  there  ought  to  be,  unless  we  except  the  concluding  verse  of 
the  third  stanza;  and  this  seems  to  overrun  its  bounds  with  a 
special  propriety, — besides  the  grace  of  its  repetition  in  the  stanza 
following.  Here  follows  another  short  piece,  which  can  also 
be  given  entire.  The  last  line  has  a  vivacity  and  novelty  de- 
lightfully unexpected  ;  but  I  am  afraid  it  was  suggested  by  a 
similar  turn  in  one  of  our  old  dramatists,  though  I  cannot  recol- 
lect which. 


THE  REMONSTRANCE. 

Why  so  pale  and  wan,  fond  lover  ? 

Prythee,  why  so  pale  ? 
Will,  when  looking  well  can^t  move  her. 
Looking  ill  prevail  ? 
Prythee,  why  so  pale  ? 


158  SUCKLING. 


Why  so  dull  and  mute,  young  sinner  ? 

Prythee,  why  so  mute  ? 
Will,  when  speaking  well  can't  win  her. 
Saying  nothing  do't  ? 
Prythee,  why  so  mute  ? 

Quit,  quit  for  shame  !  this  will  not  move, 

This  cannot  take  her  ; 
If  of  herself  she  will  not  love. 
Nothing  can  make  her. 
The  Devil  take  her. 

Suckling  was  the  first  writer  (in  English)  of  those  critical 
Sessions,  or  gatherings  together  of  the  poets  for  the  adjustment 
of  their  claims  to  superiority,  which  gave  rise  to  similar  pleasant- 
ries on  the  part  of  Rochester,  Sheffield  and  others.  Sir  John's 
Sessions  of  the  Poets  seems  to  have  been  poured  forth  at  a  sitting, 
as  heartily  as  his  bottle.  It  has  all  the  negligence,  but  at  the 
same  time  spirit,  of  a  first  impulsive  sketch  ;  and  perhaps  it 
might  have  been  hurt  by  correction  ;  though  such  a  verse  as 
the  second  in  the  fifth  stanza — 

"  Prepar'd  with  Canary  wine — " 

could  hardly  have  been  intended  to  remain.     The  whole  poem  is 
here  given  almost  verbatim. 


A  SESSION  OF  THE  POETS.' 

A  session  was  held  the  other  day, 
And  Apollo  himself  was  at  it,  they  say. 
The  Laurel,  that  had  been  so  long  reserv'd. 
Was  now  to  be  given  to  him  best  deserved  : 

And  therefore  the  wits  of  the  town  came  thither, 
'Twas  strange  to  see  how  they  flock'd  together ; 
Each,  strongly  confident  of  his  own  way, 
Thought  to  bear  the  laurel  away  that  day. 

There  was  Selden,  and  he  sat  close  by  the  chair  ; 
Wenman,  not  far  off,  whi  h  was  very  fair. 


SUCKLING.  159 


Sands  with  Townsend,  for  they  kept  no  order, 
Digby  and  Chillingworth  a  little  further. 

There  was  Lucan's  translator  too,  and  he 
That  makes  God  speak  so  big  in  his  poetry  ;* 
Selwin,  and  Waller,  and  Bartlcts,  both  the  brothers  ; 
Jack  Vaughan  and  Porter,  and  divers  others. 

The  first  that  broke  silence  was  good  old  Ben, 

Prepar'd  with  Canary  wine  ; 

And  he  told  them  plainly  he  deserv'd  the  bays. 

For  his  were  call'd  "  Works,"  where  others  were  but  Plays.* 

And  bid  them  remember  how  he  had  purg'd  the  stage 
Of  errors  that  had  lasted  many  an  age ; 
And  he  hop'd  they  didn't  think  the  Silent  Woman, 
The  Fox  and  the  Alchymist,  out-done  by  no  man. 

Apollo  stopt  him  there,  and  bid  him  not  go  on  ; 
'Twas  merit,  he  said,  and  not  presumption 
Must  carry  it ;  at  which  Ben  turn'd  about. 
And  in  great  choler  offered  to  go  out. 

But  those  that  were  there,  thought  it  not  fit 
To  discontent  so  ancient  a  wit ; 
And  therefore  Apollo  call'd  him  back  again, 
And  made  him  mine  host  of  his  own  J\''ew  Inn. 

Tom  Carew*  was  next,  but  he  had  a  fault 

That  wouldn't  well  stand  with  a  Laureat ; 

His  muse  was  so  slow,  that  the  issue  of  his  brain 

Was  seldom  brought  forth  but  with  trouble  and  pain  ; 

And  all  that  were  present  there  did  agree 

A  Laureat  muse  should  be  easy  and  free. 

Yet  sure  'twas  n't  that ;  but  'twas  thought  that  his  grace'' 

Consider'd  he  was  well  he  had  a  cup-bearer's  place  3 

Will  Davenant,  asham'd  of  a  foolish  mischance 
That  he  had  got  lately  travelling  in  France, 
Modestly  hoped  the  handsomeness  of 's  muse 
Might  any  deformity  about  him  excuse. 

And  surely  the  company  would  have  been  content 
If  they  could  have  found  ai  .y  precedent ; 

•  Who  was  this  ?  *  Pronounced  Carey. 


160  SUCKLING. 


But  in  all  their  records,  either  in  verse  or  prose, 
There  was  not  one  Laureat  without  a  nose. 

To  Will  Bartlet  sure  all  the  wits  meant  well,* 
But  first  they  would  see  how  his  "  Snow"  would  sell ; 
Will  smil'd,  and  swore  in  their  judgments  they  went  less 
That  concluded  of  merit  upon  success. 

Suddenly  taking  his  place  again. 

He  gave  way  to  Selwin,  who  straight  stept  in ; 

But  alas  !  he  had  been  so  lately  a  wit. 

That  Apollo  himself  scarce  knew  him  yet. 

Toby  Matthews  (^plague  on  him,  how  came  he  there  ?) 
Was  whispering  nothing  in  somebody' s  ear. 
When  he  had  the  honor  to  be  nara'd  in  court ; 
But,  sir,  you  must  thank  my  Lady  Carlisle  for't ; 

For  had  not  her  "  Character'''  furnish'd  you  out 
With  something  of  handsome,  without  all  doubt 
You  and  your  sorry  lady-muse  had  been 
In  the  number  of  those  that  were  not  let  in. 

In  haste  from  the  court  two  or  three  came  in, 
And  they  brought  letters,  forsooth,  from  the  Queen  ! 
'Twas  discreetly  done,  too,  for  if  they  had  come 
Without  them,  they  had  scarce  been  let  into  the  room. 

This  made  a  dispute  ;  for  'twas  plain  to  be  seen 

Each  man  had  a  mind  to  gratify  the  Queen  ; 

But  Apollo  himself  could  not  think  it  fit ; 

There  was  difference,  he  said,  betwixt  fooling  and  wit  * 


Suckling  next  was  call'd,  but  did  not  appear  ; 
But  straight  one  whisper'd  Apollo  i'  th'  ear. 
That  of  all  men  living  he  car'd  not  for't ; 
He  lov'd  not  the  Muses  so  well  as  his  sport ; 

And  priz'd  black  eyes,  or  a  lucky  hit 
At  bowls,  above  all  the  trophies  of  wit  ; 
But  Apollo  was  angry,  and  publicly  said 
'Twas  fit  that  a  fine  were  set  on's  head. 

Wat  Montagu  next  stood  forth  to  his  trial, 
And  did  not  so  much  as  suspect  a  denial ; 
But  witty  Apollo  ask'd  him  first  of  all 
If  he  understood  his  own  "  Pastoral." 


SUCKLING.  161 


For  if  he  cou'd  do  it,  Hwould  plainly  appear 
He  understood  more  than  any  man  there. 
And  did  merit  the  bays  above  all  the  rest. 
But  the  Monsieur  was  modest,  ^nd  silence  confest. 

During  these  troubles  in  the  court  was  hid 

One  that  Apollo  soon  miss'd, — little  Sid  ; 

And  having  spy'd  him,  call'd  him  out  of  the  throng, 

And  advis'd  him  in  his  ear  not  to  write  so  strong. 

Murray  was  summon'd ;  but  'twas  urg'd,  that  he 
Was  chief  already  of  another  company. 

Hales,  set  by  himself,  most  gravely  did  smile 
To  see  them  about  nothing  keep  such  a  coil ; 
Apollo  had  spy'd  him,  but  knowing  his  mind 
Past  by,  and  call'd  Falkland,  that  sat  just  behind  : 

But  he  was  of  late  so  gone  wath  divinity. 
That  he  had  alm.ost  forgot  his  poetry  ; 
Though  to  say  the  truth,  and  Apollo  did  know  it. 
He  might  have  been  both  his  priest  and  his  poet. 

At  length  who  but  an  Alderman  did  appear, 
At  which  Will  Davenant  began  to  swear  ; 
But  wiser  Apollo  bade  him  draw  nigher. 
And,  when  he  was  mounted  a  little  higher, 

He  openly  declar'd,  that  the  best  sign 

Of  good  store  of  wit  was  to  have  good  store  of  coin ; 

And  without  a  syllable  more  or  less  said, 

He  put  the  laurel  on  the  Alderman's  head. 

At  this  all  the  wits  were  in  such  amaze. 
That,  for  a  good  while,  they  did  nothing  but  gaze 
One  upon  another ;  not  a  man  in  the  place 
But  had  discontent  writ  at  large  in  his  face. 

Only  the  small  Poets  cheer'd  up  again 

Out  of  hope,  as  'twas  thought,  of  borrowing; 

But  sure  they  are  out;  for  he  forfeits  his  "crown," 

When  he  lends  to  any  Poet  about  the  town.* 

1  "  A  Session  of  the  Poets."— 0?  the  "  poets"  here  mentioned, 
Selden  is  the  famous  jurist ;  Sands  (or  Sandys)  the  translator  of 
Ovid  ;  Digby,  Sir  Kenelm  ;  Chillingworth,  the  controversialist ; 


162  SUCKLING. 


"  Lucan's  translator,"  May  ;  Jack  Vaughan,  Sir  John,  after- 
wards Chief  Justice  of  the  Common  Pleas  ;  Porter,  Endymion, 
an  accojnplished  courtier  and  loyalist ;  Toby  Matthews,  a  busy- 
body about  town,  author  of  a  "  Character"  of  Lady  Carlisle,  of 
whom  he  was  a  great  admirer  ;  Wat  Montague,  Walter  of  the 
Manchester  family,  author  of  a  poem  called  the  "  Sheppard's 
Paradise,"  who  became  a  Roman  Catholic,  and  had  an  abbey 
given  him  in  France,  whence  he  is  called  "  Monsieur  ;"  Little 
Sid,  Sidney  Godolphin,  one  of  the  many  great  men  of  the  age, 
who  were  diminutive  in  person  ;  Hales,  the  "  ever-memorable" 
of  Eton ;  Falkland,  Lord  Falkland,  the  romantic  victim  of  the 
civil  wars.  Ben  Jonson,  Waller,  Carew,  and  Davenant,  need  no 
explanation.     Who  the  others  were  I  cannot  say. 

2  "For  his  loerc  calTd  Works,  where  others  were  but  Plays."— An 
actual  boast  of  Jonson's.  "  Works"  ihey  certainly  were, — the 
result  of  the  greatest  labor  and  pains.  Shakspeare's  plays  were 
emanations.  But  the  classic  Ben  thought  no  title  for  his  books 
comparable  to  one  that  was  a  translation  of  the  Latin  word  opera. 
The  Netv  Inn,  subsequently  mentioned,  is  the  name  of  one  of  his 
comedies. 

3  "  A  cup-bearer's  place."— Carew  held  this  office  at  court. 

■i  "  How  his  '  Snow'  would  sell."— A  poem,  I  presume,  so  called. 

5  "  There  was  difference,  he  said,  betwixt  fooling  and  wit." — This 
seems  hardly  respectful  towards  the  Queen  from  the  son  of  his 
Majesty's  Comptroller  of  the  Household.  But  perhaps  Henrietta 
Maria  was  sometimes  forced  to  give  letters,  which  she  was  not 
unwilling  to  see  regarded  accordingly.  Still  the  tone  of  the 
rejection,  notwithstanding  what  is  said  of  the  wish  to  gratify  her, 
seems  hardly  such  as  would  have  been  liked  by  a  woman  of  her 
temper.  Had  she  ever  called  Suckling  a  fool  ?  and  so  provoked 
him  to  show  the  difference  between  a  real  wit  like  himself,  and 
some  of  the  pretenders  in  her  Majesty's  train  ? 

6  He  forfeits  his  "  crown," 

Wlien  he  lends  to  any  Poet  about  the  town, 

A  p'J.n  on  the  word  crown. 

Suckling's  dramas   are    so   confused   and   obscure,  that  they 


SUCKLING.  163 


seem  to  have  been  written  when  he  was  half  awake.  Probably 
he  was  too  impatient  to  fasliion  them  properly.  The  construc- 
tion of  a  regular  play  with  not  enough  passion  in  it  to  make  it 
flow  off  at  a  heat,  must  have  been  a  heavy  task  to  a  man  accus- 
tomed to  the  excitement  of  the  gaming-table,  and  with  his  hands 
full  of  "affairs  of  the  heart."  Sir  John's  most  renowned 
effusion,  therefore,  was  a  Ballad  on  a  Wedding ;  and  exquisite 
of  its  kind  it  is.  Its  only  fault  is  that  it  commences  in  language 
more  provincial  than  it  goes  on  with.  Yet  times  and  manners 
are  so  altered,  that  1  can  only  give  the  two  following  portraits 
out  of  it.  The  latter  fortunately  contains  the  most  charming 
touches  in  the  poem.  The  bridegroom  is  said  to  have  been  Lord 
Broghill,  the  well-known  soldier  and  politician  (afterwards  Earl 
of  Orrery),  and  the  bride,  Lady  Margaret  Howard,  daughter  of 
the  Earl  of  Suffolk. 


THE  BRIDEGROOM. 

I  tell  thee,  Dick,  where  I  have  been, 
Where  I  the  rarest  things  have  seen ; 

Oh  !  things  without  compare  ! 
Such  sights  again  cannot  be  found 
In  any  place  on  English  ground, 

Be  it  at  wake  or  fair. 

At  Charing-Cross,  hard  hy  the  way 
Where  we  (thou  know'st)  do  sell  our  hay, 

There  is  a  house  with  stairs  ; 
And  there  did  I  see,  coming  down. 
Such  folks  as  are  not  in  our  town. 

Forty  at  least  in  pairs. 

Amongst  the  rest,  one  pest'lent  fine 
(His  beard  no  bigger  though  than  thine), 

Walk'd  on  before  the  rest : 
Our  landlord  looks  like  nothing  to  him  ; 
The  king  (God  bless  him),  '<  would  undo  him, 

Shou'd  he  go  still  so  dicst. 


164  SUCKLING. 


At  Course-a-park,  without  all  doubt, 
He  should  have  first  been  taken  out 

By  all  the  maids  i'  th'  town : 
Though  lusty  Roger  there  had  been, 
Or  little  George  upon  the  Green, 

Or  Vincent  of  the  Crown. 


THE  BRIDE. 

Her  finger  was  so  small,  the  ring 
Wou'd  not  stay  on,  which  they  did  bring; 

It  was  too  wide,  a  peck  ; 
And  to  say  truth  (for  out  it  must) 
It  look'd  like  the  great  collar  {jtist) 

About  our  young  colt's  neck. 

Her  feet  beneath  her  petticoat 
Like  little  mice,  stole  in  and  out. 

As  if  they  feaf  d  the  light  ; 
But  oh  !  she  darices  such  a  way  ! 
JVb  sun  upon  an  Easter  day 

Is  half  so  fine  a  sight. 

Her  cheeks  so  rare  a  white  was  on. 
No  daisy  bears  comparison 

(Who  sees  them  is  undone), 
For  streaks  of  red  were  mingled  there, 
Such  as  are  on  a  Katherine  pear. 

The  side  that's  next  the  sun. 

Her  lips  loere  red,  and  one  was  thin 
Compared  to  that  was  next  her  chin. 

Some  bee  had  stung  it  newly  ; 
But  (Dick)  her  eyes  so  guard  her  face, 
I  durst  no  more  upon  them  gaze, 

Than  on  the  sun  in  July.' 

^  With  the  lip  described  in  this  stanza  all  the  world  has  been 
in  love.  I  used  to  think  that  the  accent  on  the  first  syllable  of 
"  July"  was  a  pleasant  exercise  of  will  on  the  writer's  part,  in 
order  to  force  a  rhyme  with  "  truly  ;"  but  on  turning  to  the 
dictionary  I  find  it  is  the  proper  one.     I  suppose  we  have  got  the 


SUCKLING.  165 


habit  of  calling  it  July,  from  a  wish  to  make  the  distinction  the 
greater  between  it  and  June. — I  beg  pardon  of  the  "  lip"  for  turn- 
ing from  it  to  this  dry  bit  of  criticism.  It  is  impossible  to  quit  the 
subject  without  turning  again,  to  give  it  another  glance. 


166  BROME. 


B  R  0  M  E. 

BORN,    ? DIED,    1752. 


I  KNOW  nothing  of  Richard  Brome,  except  that  he  once  acted  in 
some  kind  of  capacity  of  "  servant"  to  Ben  Jonson  ;  that  he  wrote 
a  number  of  comedies,  which  succeeded  ;  and  that  one  of  them, 
the  Jovial  Crew,  or  Merry  Beggars,  was  in  possession  of  the  stage 
not  long  ago.  The  following  laughable  fancy  is  extracted  by 
Charles  Lamb  into  his  "  Dramatic  Specitiiens."  If  Brome  wrote 
many  such,  he  deserves  to  be  better  known.  The  second  child- 
hood of  the  old  gentlemen  is  very  ludicrous,  especially  of  the 
restive  one,  who  tells  his  young  director  that  he  is  "  none  of  his 
father." 

There  was  another  Bi'ome,  Alexander,  a  jovial  attorney  and 
loyalist  during  the  Civil  Wars,  whose  bacchanalian  vein  is  said 
to  have  done  good  service  to  his  cause.  I  have  looked  through 
his  volume,  but  can  find  little  in  it  except  noise  and  smartness ; 
though  there  is  a  tone  of  sincerity  that  does  him  honor.  There 
is  nothing  so  ready  to  take  the  will  for  the  deed  in  matters  of  wit 
and  song,  as  conviviality  and  good-fellowship  ;  and  very  par- 
donable is  the  mistake  ;  though  the  printed  consequences  are  too 
apt  to  resemble  the  dullness  "  next  morning." 


OLD  MEN  GOING  TO  SCHOOL. 
Scene  from  the  comedy  of  the  Antipodes,  in  which  the  "  world 


BROME.  J  67 


is  turned  upside  down,"  servants  ruling  their  masters,  children 
sending  their  parents  to  school,  &c. 

Sox,  Servant,  Gentleman,  and  Ladt,  natives. 
English  Traveller. 

Servant  {to  his  young  master).     How  well  you  saw 
Your  father  to  school  to-day,  knowing  how  apt 
He  is  to  play  the  truant ! 

Son.  But  is  he  not 

Yet  gone  to  scHRol  ? 

Servant.  Stand  by,  and  you  shall  see. 

Enter  three  Old  Men,  with  satchels.* 

All  three  {singing).  Domine,  domine,  duster  ; 
Three  knaves  in  a  cluster. 

Son.  0  this  is  gallant  pastime  !     Nay,  come  on. 
Is  this  your  school  7  was  that  your  lesson,  hay  ? 

1st  Old  Man.  Pray  now,  good  son,  indeed,  indeed 

Son.  Indeed 

You  shall  to  school.     Away  with  him;  and  take 
Their  wagships  with  him,  the  whole  cluster  of 'em. 

■2d  Old  Man.  You  sha'n't  send  us  now,  so  you  sha'nt 

'Sd  Old  Man.    We  be  none  of  your  father,  so  we  ben't. 

Son.  Away  witli  'em,  I  say  ;  and  tell  their  school-mistress 
What  truants  they  are,  and  bid  her  pay  'em  soundly. 

All  three.  Oh,  oh,  oh  ! 

Lady.  Alas !  will  nobody  beg  pardon  for 
The  poor  old  boys  ? 

English  Traveller.  Do  men  of  such  fair  years 
Here  go  to  school  r 

Gentleman.  They  would  die  dunces  else. 
These  were  great  scholars  in  their  youth  ;  but  when 
Age  grows  upon  men  here,  their  learning  wastes,  ^ 

And  so  decays,  that  if  they  live  until 
Threescore,  their  sons  send  them  to  school  again  ; 
Tlieyd  die  as  speechless  else  as  new-born  children. 

English  Traveller.  '  Tis  a  wise  nation :  and  the  piety 
Of  the  young  men  most  rare  and  commendable. 
Yet  give  me,  as  a  stranger,  leave  to  beg 
Their  liberty  this  day. 

Son.  'Tis  granted. 


168  BROME. 


Hold  up  your  heads,  and  thank  the  gentleman 
Like  scholars,  with  your  heels  now.* 

All  three.  '  Gratias,  gratias.]  {Exeunt  singing. 

*  He  means  they  are  to  scrape,  and  make  a  bow. 

t  "  Thanks,  tha7iks."— They  say  it  in  Latin,  according  to  school  cus- 
tom, and  to  show  their  progress. 


MARVEL.  169 


MARVEL. 

BORN,    1G20— DIED,     1678. 


Andrew  Marvel,  a  thoughtful  and  graceful  poet,  a  masterly 
prose-writer  and  controversialist,  a  wit  of  the  first  water,  and,  above 
all,  an  incorruptible  patriot,  is  thought  to  have  had  no  mean  hand 
in  putting  an  end  to  the  dynasty  of  the  Stuarts.  His  wit  helped  to 
render  them  ridiculous,  and  his  integrity  added  weight  to  the 
sting.  The  enmity,  indeed,  of  such  a  man  was  in  itself  a  re- 
proach to  them  ;  for  Marvel,  though  bred  on  the  Puritan  side, 
was  no  Puritan  himself,  nor  a  foe  to  any  kind  of  reasonable  and 
respectable  government.  He  had  served  Cromwell  with  his  friend 
Milton,  as  Latin  Secretary,  but  would  have  aided  Ciiarles  the 
Second  as  willingly,  in  his  place  in  Parliament,  had  the  king 
been  an  honest  man  instead  of  a  pensioner  of  France.  The  story 
of  his  refusing  a  carte  blanche  from  the  king's  treasurer,  and  then 
sending  out  to  borrow  a  guinea,  would  be  too  well  known  to  need 
allusion  to  it  in  a  book  like  the  present,  if  it  did  not  contaiji  a 
specimen  of  a  sort  of  practical  wit. 

Marvel  being  pressed  by  the  royal  emissary  to  state  what  would 
satisfy  his  expectations,  and  finding  that  there  was  no  other  mode 
of  persuading  him  tliat  he  had  none,  called  in  his  servant  to  testify 
to  his  dining  three  days  in  succession  upon  one  piece  of  mutton. 

Even  the  wise  and  refined  Marvel,  however,  was  not  free  from 
the  coarseness  of  his  age  ;  and  hence  I  find  the  same  provoking 
difficulty  as  in  the  case  of  his  predecessors,  witli  regard  to  extracts 
from  the  poetical  portion  of  his  satire.  With  the  prose  1  should 
not  have  been  at  a  loss.     But  the  monr]ent  these  wits  of  old  tin^e 

9 


170  MARVEL. 


bewail  rhyming,  they  seem  to  have  thought  themselves  bound  to 
give  the  same  after-dinner  license  to  their  fancy,  as  when  they 
were  called  upon  for  a  song.  To  read  the  noble  ode  on  Cromwell, 
in  which  such  a  generous  compliment  is  paid  to  Charles  the  First, 
— the  devout  and  beautiful  one  entitled  Bermuda,  and  the  sweet 
overflowing  fancies  put  into  the  mouth  of  the  Nymph  lamenting 
ike  loss  of  her  Faun, — and  then  to  follow  up  their  perusal  with 
some,  nay  most  of  the  lampoons  that  were  so  formidable  to  Charles 
and  his  brother,  you  would  hardly  think  it  possible  for  the  same 
man  to  have  written  both,  if  examples  were  not  too  numerous  to 
the  contrary.  Fortunately  for  the  reputation  of  Marvel's  wit, 
with  those  who  chose  to  become  acquainted  with  it,  he  wrote  a 
great  deal  better  in  prose  than  in  verse,  and  the  prose  does  not 
take  the  license  of  the  verse.  Hence,  as  Swift  for  another  reason 
observes,  we  can  still  read  with  pleasure  his  answer  to  his  now 
forgotten  antagonist  Parker.  Of  his  witty  poems,  I  can  only  give 
a  single  one  entire,  which  is  the  following.  The  reader  knows 
the  impudent  Colonel  Blood,  who,  in  the  disguise  of  a  clergyman, 
attempted  to  steal  the  crown,  in  payment  (as  he  said)  of  dues 
withheld  from  him  in  Ireland.  Marvel  had  not  forgotten  the  days 
of  Laud,  and  he  saw  people  still  on  the  bench  of  bishops  who 
were  for  renewing  the  old  persecutions.  Hence  the  bitterness  of 
the  implication  made  against  prelates. 


ON  BLOOD  STEALING  THE  CROWN. 

When  daring  Blood,  his  rent  to  have  regain'd, 
Upon  the  British  diadem  distrain' d. 
He  chose  the  cassock,  circingle,*  and  gown. 
The  fittest  mask  for  one  that  robs  the  crown; 
But  his  lay-pity  underneath  prevail'd, 
And  whilst  he  sav'd  the  keeper's  life,  he  fail'd. 
With  the  priesfs  vestment  had  he  but  put  on 
The  prelate's  cruelty,  the  crown  had  gone. 

*  The  girdle  of  a  cassock ;  generally  spelt  surcingle. 


MARVEL.  171 


DESCRIPTION  OF  HOLLAND.* 

Holland,  that  scarce  deserves  the  name  of  land, 
As  but  the  off-scouring  of  the  British  sand  ; 
And  so  much  earth  as  was  contributed 
By  English  pilots,  when  they  heaved  the  lead  ; 
Or  what  by  the  ocean's  slow  alluvion  fell. 
Of  shipivrecked  cockle  and  the  mussel-shell. 

*  *  *  * 

Glad  then,  as  miners  who  have  found  the  ore. 
They,  with  mad  labor,  fish'd  the  land  to  shore  ; 
And  dived  as  desperately  for  each  piece 
Of  earth,  as  if  it  had  been  of  ambergreece  ; 
Collecting  anxiously  small  loads  of  clay. 
Less  than  what  building  swallows  bear  away  ; 
Or  than  those  pills  which  sordid  beetles  rowl. 
Transferring  into  them  their  dunghill  soul. 
How  did  they  rivet  with  gigantic  piles 
Thorough  the  centre  their  new-catched  miles  ; 
And  to  the  stake  a  struggling  country  bound. 
Where  barking  waves  still  bait  the  forced  ground  ; 
Building  their  wat'ry  Babel  far  more  high 
To  catch  the  waves  than  those  to  scale  the  sky. 
Yet  still  his  claim  the  injured  ocean  layed. 
And  oft  at  leap-frog  o'er  their  steeples  played  ; 
As  if  on  purpose  it  on  land  had  come 
To  show  them  what's  their  mare  Liberum  ;* 
A  daily  deluge  over  them  does  boil ; 
And  earth  and  water  play  at  level-coyl  ;t 
The  fish  oft-times  the  burgher  dispossessed. 
And  sat,  not  as  a  meat,  but  as  a  guest  ; 
And  oft  the  Tritons,  and  the  .sea-nymphs,  saw 
Whole  shoals  of  Dutch  served  up  for  cabillau  ;X 
Or,  as  they  over  the  new  level  ranged, 
For  pickled  herring,  pickled  Heeren  changed. 
Nature,  it  seem'd,  asham'd  of  her  mistake. 
Would  throw  their  land  away  at  duck  and  drake  : 
Therefore  necessity,  that  first  made  kings, 
Something  like  government  among  them  brings  ; 

•  A  free  ocean  ;  for  which  the  Dutch  jurists  were  then  contending  with 
the  English. 

t  I  cannot  discover  the  meaning  of  this  word,  and  unfortunately  am  at  a 
distance  from  linguists  better  informed. 

X  Fresh  cod 


in  MARVEL. 


For  as  with  pigmys,  who  best  kills  the  crane, 
Among  the  hungry  he  that. treasures  grain, 
Among  the  blind  the  one-eyed  blinkard  reigns. 
So  rules  among  the  droumed  he  that  drains. 
Not  who  first  sees  the  rising  sun,  commands  ; 
But  who  could  first  discern  the  rising  lands. 
Who  best  could  know  to  pump  an  earth  so  leak. 
Him  they  their  lord  and  country's  father  speak. 
To  make  a  bank  was  a  great  plot  of  state  ; 
Invent  a  shovel,  and  be  a  magistrate. 

1  Description  of  Holland.— The  jest  of  this  effusion  lies  in  the  in- 
tentional and  excessive  exaggeration.  To  enjoy  it  thoroughly,  it 
is  necessary  perhaps  that  the  reader  should  be  capable,  in  some 
degree,  of  the  like  sort  of  jesting,  or  at  least  have  animal  spirits 
enough  to  run  willing  riot  with  the  extravagance.  Mr.  Hazlitt, 
for  defect  of  these,  could  see  no  kind  of  joke  in  it,  notwithstand- 
ing his  admiration  of  Marvel.  He  once  began  an  argument  with 
Charles  Lamb  and  myself,  to  prove  to  us  that  we  ought  not  to 
laugh  at  such  things.  Somebody  meanwhile  was  reading  the 
verses  ;  and  the  only  answer  which  they  left  us  the  power  to 
make  to  our  critical  friend  was  by  laughing  immeasurably. 
But  I  have  mentioned  this  in  the  Introductory  Essay. 


FLECNOE,  AN  ENGLISH  PRIEST  AT  ROME.* 

Obliged  by  frequent  visits  of  this  man, 

Whom  as  a  priest,  poet,  and  musician, 

I  for  some  branch  of  Melchizedec  took 

(Tho'  he  derives  himself  from  my  Lord  Brooke) 

I  sought  his  lodging  ;  which  is  at  the  sign 

Of  the  Sad  Pelican  ;  subject  divine 

For  poetry.     There,  three  stair-cases  high. 

Which  signifys  his  triple  property, 

I  found  at  last  a  chamber,  as  'twas  said, 

But  seem'd  a  coffin  set  on  the  stairs'  head. 

Not  higher  than  sev'n,  nor  larger  than  three  feet : 

There  neither  was  or  ceiling,  or  a  sheet. 

Save  that  th'  ingenious  door  did,  as  you  come. 


MARVEL.  173 


Turn  in,  and  show*  to  wainscot  half  the  room. 
***** 
Straight  U'ithout  further  inforination. 
In  liideous  verse,  he  in  a  dismal  tone, 
Begins  to  exercise  ;  as  if  I  were 
Possess'd  ;  and  sure  the  devil  brought  me  there. 
But  I,  who  now  imagin'd  myself  brought 
To  my  last  tryal,  in  a  serious  thought 
Calmed  the  disorders  of  my  youthful  breast, 
And  to  my  martyrdom  prepared  rest. 
Only  this  frail  ambition  did  remain, 
The  last  distemper  of  the  sober  brain. 
That  there  had  been  some  present  to  assure 
The  future  ages  how  I  diet  endure  : 
And  how  I,  silent,  turn'd  my  burning  ear 
Towards  the  verse  ;  and  when  that  could  not  hear, 
Held  him  the  other ;  and  unchanged  yet, 
Ask'd  him  for  more,  and  pray'd  him  to  repeat ; 
Till  the  tyrant,  weary  to  persecute. 
Left  off,  and  tried  to  allure  me  with  his  lute. 


I,  that  perceiv'd  now  what  his  musick  meant, 

Ask'd  civilly,  if  he  had  eat  this  Lent  ? 

He  answered,  yes  ;  with  such,  and  such  an  one ; 

For  he  has  this  of  gen'rous,  that  alone 

He  never  feeds ;  save  only  when  he  trys 

With  gristly  tongue  to  dart  the  passing  flies. 

I  ask'd  if  he  eat  flesh.     And  he,  that  was 

So  hungry,  that  tho'  ready  to  say  mass, 

Would  break  his  fast  before,  said  he  was  sick, 

And  th'  ordnance  was  only  politick. 

Nor  was  I  longer  to  invite  him  :  scant 

Happy  at  once  to  make  him  Protestant, 

And  silent.     Nothing  now  dinner  stay'd. 

But  still  he  had  himself  a  body  made  : 

I  mean  till  he  ivere  dress' d  ;  for  else  so  thin 

He  stands,  as  if  he  only  fed  had  been 

With  consecrated  wafers ;  and  the  host 

Hath  sure  more  flesh  and  blood  than  he  can  boast. 

This  basso  relievo  of  a  man. 

Who  as  a  camel  tall,  yet  eas'ly  can 

The  needle's  eye  thread  without  any  stitch. 

His  only  impossible  is  to  be  rich  ; — 

*  Seem. 


174  MARVEL. 


Lest  his  too  subtle  body,  growing  rare, 
Should  leave  his  soul  to  wander  in  the  Eiir, 
He  therefore  circumscribes  himself  in  rhymes ; 
And  swaddled  in  's  own  papers  seven  times. 
Wears  a  close  jacket  of  poetic  buff. 
With  which  he  doth  his  third  dimension  stuff. 
Thus  armed  underneath,  he  over  all 
Does  make  a  primitive  Sotana  fall ; 
And  above  that  yet  casts  an  antique  cloak. 
Worn  at  the  first  council  of  Antioch  ; 
Which  by  the  Jews  long  hid  and  disesteeni'd. 
He  heard  of  by  tradition,  and  redeemed. 
But  were  he  not  in  this  black  habit  deck'd, 
This  half  transparent  man  would  soon  reflect 
Each  color  that  he  past  by  ;  and  be  seen. 
As  the  camelion,  yellow,  blue,  or  green. 

He  dress'd,  and  ready  to  disfurnish  now 
His  chamber  (whose  compactness  did  allow 
No  empty  place  for  complimenting  doubt, 
But  who  came  last  is  forc'd  first  to  go  out), 
I  met  one  on  the  stairs  who  made  me  stand, 
Stopping  the  passage,  and  did  him  demand  ; 
I  answer'd,  "  He  is  here,  sir;  but  you  see 
You  cannot  pass  to  him  but  thorow  me." 
He  thought  himself  aflronted ;  and  reply'd, 
"  I,  whom  the  palace  never  was  deny'd. 
Will  make  the  way  here."     I  said,  "  Sir,  you'll  do 
Me  a  great  favor,  for  I  seek  to  go." 

'^  Flecnoe,  an  English  Priest  at  Home.— 'Poor  Flecnoe  was  the 
poetaster,  after  whom  Dryden  christened  Shadwell,  "  MacFlec- 
noe."  See  passages  Irom  the  satire  thus  entitled  in  the  present 
volume.  The  verses  before  us,  which  are  written  in  the  same 
spirit  of  exaggeration  as  the  preceding,  exhibit  that  strange  rug- 
gedness  in  the  versification,  which  was  intentional  in  the  satirists 
of  those  days  when  they  used  the  heroic  measure,  and  which 
they  took  to  be  the  representative  of  the  satirical  numbers  of 
Horace  or  his  predecessors.  Flecnoe  luckily  appears  to  have 
rendered  the  most  good-natured  poets  callous,  by  a  corresponding 
insensibility  to  the  hardest  attacks. 


BUTLER.  175 


BUTLER. 

BORN,    1612— DIED,    1680. 


BuTLEK  is  the  wittiest  of  English  poets,  and  at  the  same  time  he 
is  one  of  the  most  learned,  and  what  is  more,  one  of  the  wisest. 
His  Hudibras,  though  naturally  the  most  popular  of  his  works 
from  its  size,  subject,  and  witty  excess,  was  an  accident  of  birth 
and  party  compared  with  Ids  Miscellaneous  Poems ;  yet  both 
abound  in  thoughts  as  great  and  deep  as  the  surface  is  spark- 
ling ;  and  his  genius  altogether,  having  the  additional  recommen- 
dation of  verse,  might  have  given  him  a  fame  greater  than  Rabe- 
lais, had  his  animal  spirits  been  equal  to  the  rest  of  ins  qualifica- 
tions for  a  universalist.  At  the  same  time,  though  not  abounding 
in  poetic  sensibility,  he  was  not  without  it.  He  is  author  of  the 
touching  simile, 

True  as  the  dial  to  the  sun, 
Although  it  be  not  shi?i'J  upon. 

The  following  is  as  elegant  as  anything  in  Lovelace  or  Wal- 

ler : — 

« 

— What  security's  too  strong 

To  guard  that  gentle  heart  from  wrong. 

That  to  its  friend  is  glad  to  pass 

Itself  away,  and  all  it  has. 

And  like  an  anchorite,  gives  over 

This  world,  for  the  heaven  of  a  lover  ! 

And  this,  if  read  with  the  seriousness  and  singleness  of  feeling 
thbit  become  it,  is,  I  think,  a  comparison  full  of  as  much  grandeur 
a-  cordiality, — 


176  ■     BUTLER. 


Like  Indian  widows,  gone  to  bed. 
In  flaming  curtains  to  the  dead. 

You  would  sooner  have  looked  for  it  in  one  of  Marvel's  poems, 
than  in  Hudibras. 

Butler  has  little  liumor.     His  two  heroes,  Hudibras  and  Ralph, 
are  not  so  much  humorists  as  pedants.     They  are  as  little  like 
their  prototypes,  Don  Quixote  and  Sancho,  as  two  dreary  puppets 
arc  unlike  excesses  of  humanity.      They  are  not  even  consistent 
with  their  other  prototypes,  the  Puritans,  or  with  themselves,  for 
they  are  dull  fellows  unaccountably  gifted  with  the  author's  wit. 
In  this  respect,  and  as  a  narrative,  the  poem  is  a  failure.      No- 
body ever  thinks  of  the  story,  except  to  wonder  at  its  inefficiency  ; 
or  of  Hudibras  himself,  except  as  described  at  his  outset.     He  is 
nothing  but  a  ludicrous  figure.     But  considered  as  a  banter  issu- 
ing from  the  author's  own  lips,  on  the  wrong  side  of  Puritanism, 
and  indeed  on  all  the  pedantic  and  hypocritical  abuses  of  hum.an 
reason,  the  whole  production  is  a  marvellous  compound  of  wit, 
learning,  and  felicitous  execution.     The  wit  is  pure  and  inces- 
sant ;  the  learning  as  quaint  and  out-of-the-way  as  the  subject ; 
the  very  rhymes  are  echoing  scourges,  made  of  the  peremptory 
and  the  incongruous.     This  is  one  of  the  reasons  why  the  rhymes 
have  been  so  much  admired.     They  are  laughable,  not  merely 
in  themselves,  but  from  the  masterly  will  and  violence  with  which 
they  are  made  to  correspond  to  the  absurdities  they  lash.     The 
most  extraordinary  license  is  assumed  as  a  matter  of  course  ;  the 
accentuation  jerked  out  of  its  place  with  all  the  indifference  and 
effrontery  of  a  reason   "  sufficing  unto  itself."     The  poem  is  so 
peculiar  in  this  respect,  the  laughing  delight  of  the  reader  so  well 
founded,  and  the  passages  so  sure  to  be  accompanied  with  a  full 
measure  of  wit  and  knowledge,  that  I  have   retained  its   best 
rhymes  throughout,  and  thus  brought  them  together  for  the  first 
time. 

Butler,  like  the  great  wit  of  the  opposite  party,  Marvel,  was  an 
honest  man,  fonder  of  his  books  than  of  worldly  success,  and 
superior  to  party  itself  in  regard  to  final  principles.  He  wrote  a 
satire  on  the  follies  and  vices  of  the  court,  which  is  most  likely 
the  reason  why  it  is  doubted  whether  he  ever  got  anything  by 
Hudibras  ;  and  he  was  so  little  prejudiced  in  favor  of  the  scholar- 


BUTLER.  177 


ship  he  possessed,  that  he  vindicated  the  born  poet  above  the  poet 
of  books,  and  would  not  have  Shakspeare  tried  by  a  Grecian 
standard. 


DESCRIPTION  OF  HUDIBRAS  AND  HIS  EQUIPMENTS. 

When  civil  dudgeon  first  grew  high, 

And  men  fell  out  they  knew  not  why  ; 

When  hard  words,  jealousies,  and  fears. 

Set  folks  together  by  the  ears. 

And  made  them  fight,  like  mad  or  drunk. 

For  dame  Religion,  as  for  punk' 

(Whose  honesty  they  all  durst  swear  for, 

Though  not  a  man  of  them  knew  wherefore)  ; 

When  gospel-trumpeter,  surrounded 

With  long-ear'd  rout,  to  battle  sounded ; 

And  pulpit,  drum  ecclesiastic. 

Was  beat  with  fist  instead  of  a  stick ; 

Then  did  Sir  Knight  abandon  dwelling, 

xA.nd  out  he  rode  a  colonelling. 

A  wight  he  was,  whose  very  sight  would 

Entitle  him  Mirror  of  Knighthood, 

That  never  bow'd  his  stubborn  knee 

To  anything  but  chivalry. 

Nor  put  up  blow,  but  that  which  laid 

Right  Worshipful  on  shoulder-blade  ; 

Chief  of  domestic  knights  and  errant. 

Either  for  chartel*  or  for  warrant ; 

Great  on  tlie  bench,  great  in  the  saddle. 

That  could  as  well  bind  o'er  as  swaddle  ;t 

Mighty  he  was  at  both  of  these, 

And  styl'd  of  war,  as  well  as  peace 

(So  some  rats,  of  amphibious  nature. 

Are  either  for  the  land  or  water). 

But  here  our  authors  make  a  doubt, 

Whether  he  were  more  wise  or  stout : 

Some  hold  the  one,  and  some  the  other. 

But,  howsoe'er  they  make  a  pother, 

The  difference  was  so  small,  his  brain 

Outweigh'd  his  rage  but  half  a  grain ; 

•  Chartel  is  a  challenge  to  a  duel. 

f  Swaddle,  to  swathe  or  bind  in  clothes  ;  hence  ,to  beat  or  cudgel. 


178  BUTLER. 


Which  made  some  take  him  for  a  tool. 
That  knaves  do  work  with,  called  a  fool. 

For  't  has  been  held  by  many,  that 
As  Montaigne,  playing  with  his  cat, 
Complains  she  thought  him  but  an  ass. 
Much  more  she  would  Sir  Hudibras 
(For  that's  the  name  our  valiant  knight 
To  all  his  challenges  did  write)  ; 
But  they're  mistaken  very  much  ; 
'Tis  plain  enough  he  was  no  such. 
We  grant,  although  he  had  much  vyit, 
H'  was  very  shy  of  using  it, 
As  being  loth  to  wear  it  out. 
And  therefore  bore  it  not  about. 
Unless  on  holy-days,  or  so. 
As  men  their  best  apparel  do. 
Besides,  'tis  known  he  could  speak  Grreek 
As  naturally  as  pigs  squeak  ; 
That  Latin  was  no  more  difficile. 
Than  to  a  blackbird  'tis  to  whistle  ; 
Being  rich  in  both,  he  never  scanted 
His  bounty  unto  such  as  wanted ; 
But  much  of  either  would  afford 
To  many  that  had  not  one  word. 
*  *  *  * 

He  was  in  logic  a  great  critic, 
Profoundly  skill'd  in  analytic  ; 
He  could  distinguish  and  divide 
A  hair  'twixt  south  and  southwest  side  ; 
On  either  which  he  would  dispute. 
Confute,  change  hands,  and  still  confute. 
He'd  undertake  to  prove,  by  force 
Of  argument,  a  mafias  no  horse  ; 
He'd  prove  a  buzzard  is  no  fowl. 
And  that  a  lord  may  be  an  owl ; 
A  calf  an  alderman,  a  goose  a  justice,  ^ 
And  rooks  committee-men  and  trustees. 
He'd  run  in  debt  by  disptitation. 
And  pay  with  ratiocination. 
All  this  by  syllogism,  true 
In  mood  and  figure,  he  would  do. 
For  rhetoric,  he  could  not  ope 
His  mouth,  but  out  there  flew  a  trope  ; 
And  when  he  happen'd  to  break  off 
r  th'  middle  of  his  speech,  or  cough, 
H'  had  hard  words  ready  to  show  why. 


BUTLER.  179 


And  tell  what  rules  he  did  it  by  ; 

Else,  when  with  greatest  art  he  spoke. 

You'd  think  he  talk'd  like  other  folk; 

For  all  a  rhetorician's  rules 

Teach  nothing  but  to  name  his  tools. 

But,  when  he  pleas'd  to  show  't,  his  speech, 

In  loftiness  of  sound,  was  rich  ; 

A  Babylonish  dialect. 

Which  learned  pedants  much  affect ; 

It  was  a  particolor'd  dress 

Of  patch'd  and  piebaU'd  languages  ; 

'Twas  English  cut  on  Greek  and  Latin, 

Like  fustian  heretofore  on  satin : 

It  had  an  old  promiscuous  tone, 

As  if  h'  had  talk'd  three  parts  in  one  ; 

Which  made  some  think,  when  he  did  gabble, 

Th'  had  heard  three  laborers  of  Babel, 

Or  Cerberus  himself  pronounce 

A  leash  of  languages  at  once? 

*  *  *  * 

In  mathematics  he  was  greater 
Than  Tycho  Brahe  or  Erra  Pater  * 
For  he,  by  geometric  scale. 
Could  take  the  size  of  pots  of  ale  ; 
Resolve,  by  sines  and  tangents,  strait. 
If  bread  or  butter  loanted  weight: 
And  wisely  tell,  what  hour  o'  th'  day 
The  clock  does  strike,  by  algebra. 
*  *  *  * 

For  his  religion,  it  was  fit^ 
To  match  his  learning  and  his  wit : 
'Tw^as  presbyterian  true  blue  ; 
For  he  was  of  that  stubborn  crew 
Of  errant  saints,  whom  all  men  grant 
To  be  the  true  church  militant; 
Such  as  do  build  their  faith  upon 
The  holy  text  of  pike  and  gun  ; 
Decide  all  controversies  by 
Infallible  artillery  ; 
And  prove  their  doctrine  orthodox. 
By  apostolic  blows  and  knocks  ; 
Call  fire,  and  sword,  and  desolation, 
A  godly,  thorough  reformation, 
Which  always  must  be  carried  on, 
And  still  be  doing,  never  done; 
As  if  religion  were  intended 


180  BUTLER. 


For  nothing  else  but  to  be  mended : 

A  sect  whose  chief  devotion  lies 

In  odd  perverse  antipathies; 

In  falling  out  with  that  or  this. 

And  finding  somewhat  still  amiss  ; 

More  peevish,  cross,  and  splenetic. 

Than  dog  distract,  or  monkey  sick; 

That  with  more  care  keep  holy-day 

The  wrong,  than  others  the  right  way ; 

Compound  for  sins  they  are  inclin''d  to. 

By  damning  those  they  have  no  mind  to  : 

Still  so  perverse  and  opposite, 

As  if  they  worshipped  God  for  spite: 

The  self-same  thing  they  will  abhor 

One  way,  and  long  another  for  : 

Free-will  they  one  way  disavow. 

Another,  nothing  else  allow  : 

All  piety  consists  therein 

In  them,  in  other  men  all  sin  ; 

Rather  than  fail,  they  will  defy 

That  which  they  love  most  tenderly  ; 

Quarrel  with  mine' d  pies  and  disparage 

Their  best  and  dearest  friend,  plum  porridge  ; 

Fat  pig  and  goose  itself  oppose. 

And  blaspheme  custard  through  the  nose.^ 

Th'  apostles  of  this  fierce  religion, 

Like  Mahomet's,  were  ass  and  widgeon. 

To  whom  our  knight,  by  fast  instinct 

Of  wit  and  temper  was  so  linkt. 

As  if  hypocrisy  and  nonsense 

Had  got  the  advowson  of  his  conscience. 
Thus  was  he  gifted  and  accoutred. 

We  mean  on  th'  inside,  not  the  outward : 

That  next  of  all  we  shall  discuss ; 

Then  listen,  sirs;  it  follows  thus. 

His  tawny  beard  was  th'  equal  grace 

Both  of  his  ivisdom  and  his  face  ; 

In  cut  and  dye  so  like  a  tile, 

A  sudden  view  it  would  beguile : 
The  upper  pait  whereof  was  whey. 
The  nether  orange,  mix'd  with  grey. 
This  hairy  meteor  did  deiiounce 
The  fall  of  sceptres  and  of  crowns  ; 

With  grisly  type  did  represent 

Declining  age  of  government ; 

And  tell,  with  hieroglyphic  spade. 

Its  own  grave  and  the  state's  were  made. 


BUTLER.  181 


I  "For  dame  Religion,  as  for  punk." — An  old  word   for  prostitute. 

'  "  jj  calf  an  alderman,  a  goose  a  justice." — As  this  is  the  only  line 
overrunning  the  measure  of  the  poem,  and  its  length  not  at  all 
necessary,  I  think  it  probable  Butler  wrote 

A  calf  an  alderman,  goose  justice. 

3 "  A  leash  of  languages."— Uow  happy  a  word  is  this  leash, 
which  means  at  once  three  in  number,  and  a  band  for  a  dog. 

* "  Erra  Pater."— The  name  of  an  obscure  old  astrologer, 
applied  in  those  days  to  the  impostor  Lilly. 

5  "  For  his  religion,"  &.C.— Most  admirable  is  this  description  of 
the  assumptions,  perversities,  and  egotisms,  of  a  fanatical  creed, 
M  hich  identifies  its  will  and  pleasure  with  God's,  and  betrays  its 
pretended  morals  and  self  denial  by  the  most  barbarous  kind  of 
self-indulgence.  Nothing  can  surpass  the  subtle  pungency  of 
worshipping  God  "  for  spite,"  or  that  of  the  exquisite,  never-to- 
be-sufficiently  repeated  couplet, 

Compound  for  sins  they  are  inclin'd  to, 
By  damning  those  they  have  no  mind  to. 

'  "  Quarrel  mith  minc'd  pies,"  &c.— The  Puritans  set  their  faces 
against  good  cheer,  particularly  at  Christmas.  You  were  to  be 
as  uncomfortable  as  themselves,  on  pain  of  being  denounced  by 
their  envy. 


SAINTSHIP  versus  CONSCIENCE. 

"  Why  didst  thou  choose  that  cursed  sin. 
Hypocrisy,  to  set  up  in  ?" 

"  Because  it  is  the  thriving'st  calling. 
The  only  saints'  bell  that  rings  all  in  ; 
In  which  all  churches  are  concern'd, 

And  is  the  easiest  to  be  learn'd. 

***** 

Quoth  he,  "  I  am  resolv'd  to  be 
Thy  scholar  in  this  mystery  ; 
And  therefore  first  desire  to  know 


182  BUTLER. 


Some  principles  on  which  you  go. — 
What  makes  a  knave  a  child  of  God, 
And  one  of  us  ?" — "  ji  livelihood." 
"  What  renders  beating  out  of  brains. 
And  murder  godliness  ?" — "  Great  gains." 

"  What's  tender  conscience  ?" — "  'Tis  a  botch 
That  will  not  bear  the  gentlest  touch  ; 
But,  breaking  out,  despatches  more 
Than  th'  epidemical'st  plague-sore." 

"  What  makes  y'  encroach  upon  our  trade. 
And  damn  all  others  ?" — "  To  be  paid." 
"  What's  orthodox  and  true  believing 
Against  a  conscience  1" — "  A  good  living." 

"  What  makes  rebelling  against  kings 
A  good  old  cause  .'" — "  Administrings."^ 

"  What  makes  all  doctrines  plain  and  clear  ?" 
"  About  two  hundred  pounds  a  year." 

"  And  that  which  was  prov'd  true  before. 
Prove  false  again  ?" — "  Two  hundred  more." 

"  What  makes  the  breaking  of  all  oaths 
A  holy  duty  .'"— "  Food  and  clothes." 

"  What,  laws  and  freedom,  persecution  ?" 
"  Being  out  of  power  and  contribution." 

"  What  makes  a  church  a  den  of  thieves  .'" — 
"  A  dean  and  chapter,  and  white  sleeves." 

"  And  what  would  serve,  if  these  were  gone 
To  make  it  orthodox  .'"— "  Our  own." 

"  What  makes  morality  a  crime. 
The  most  notorious  of  the  time  ; 
Morality,  which  both  the  sai7its 
And  wicked  too  cry  out  against  ?" 
"  'Cause  grace  and  virtue  are  within 
Prohibited  degrees  of  kin  ; 
And  therefore  no  true  saint  allows 
They  shall  be  suffer' d  to  espouse." 

'  "  What  makes  rebelling  against  kings 
A  good  old  cause  .'" — "  Administrings." 

Administrings  were  powers  given  by  the  law  to  appropriate  the 
goods  of  persons  dying  intestate. 

Nothing  was  ever  wittier  or  better  written  than  the  whole  of 
the  passage  here  following,  particularly  the  first  and  last  four 
lines.  I  have  closed  the  extract  with  the  latter,  in  order  to  give 
it  its  best  effect ;  otherwise  the  author  goes  on  capitally  well, — 


BUTLER.  1S3 


For  saints  can  need  no  conscience 
That  with  morality  dispense. 
As  virtue's  impious  when  'tis  rooted 
In  nature  only,  and  not  imputed; 

And  so  he  proceeds  to  conclude,  that 

— A  large  conscience  is  all  one. 
And  signifies  the  same  as  none. 

Such  are  the  meetings  of  extremes  in  fanatical  religions.  And 
the  description  is  no  caricature.  By  the  ridiculous  doctrine  of 
"  imputed  merit,"  God's  creatures  were  to  be  all  vice,  in  order  to 
compliment  the  Creator  with  the  exclusive  possession  of  all  vir- 
tue !  The  children  were  to  be  made  pure  scoundrels,  in  order 
to  do  the  greater  honor  to  the  father  !  Such  are  the  flatteries  of 
superstition  ! 


THE  ASTROLOGERS. 

Quoth  Ralph,  Not  far  from  hence  doth  dwell 

A  cunning  man,  hight  Sidrophel, 

That  deals  in  Destiny's  dark  counsels 

And  sage  opinions  of  the  tnoon  sells  ; 

To  whom  all  people  far  and  near 

On  deep  importances  repair ; 

When  brass  and  pewter  hap  to  stray. 

Or  linen  slinks  out  of  the  way. 

When  geese  and  pullet  are  seduc'd. 

And  sows  of  sucking  pigs  are  chows'd. — 

He  made  an  instrument  to  know 

If  the  moon  shine  at  full  or  no ; 

That  would  as  soon  as  e'er  she  shone,  straight 

Whether  'twere  day  or  night  demonstrate  ; 

Tell  what  her  diameter  to  an  inch  is. 

And  prove  that  she's  not  made  of  green  cheese. 


A  STATESMAN'S  CONVERSATION. 

— All  a  subtle  statesman  says 

Is  half  in  words  and  half  in  face. 


184  BUTLER. 


As  Spaniards  talk  in  dialogues 

Of  heads  and  shoulders,  uods  and  shrugs  ; 

Intrust  it  under  solemn  vows 

Of  "  mum,"  and  "  silence,"  and  "  the  rose," 

To  be  retail'd  again  in  whispers 

For  th'  easy  credulous  to  disperse. 


HEROES  OF  ROMANCE. 

There  was  an  ancient  sage  philosopher. 
That  had  read  Alexander  Ross  over,^ 
And  swore  the  world,  as  he  could  prove. 
Was  made  of  fighting  and  of  love. 
Just  so  romances  are,  for  what  else 
Is  in  them  all,  but  love  and  battles  7 
O'  th'  first  of  these  w'  have  no  great  matter 
To  treat  of,  but  a  world  o'  the  latter, 
In  which  to  do  the  injur'd  right 
We  mean,  in  what  concerns  just  fight. 
Certes  our  authors  are  to  blame, 
For,  to  make  some  well-sounding  name 
A  pattern  fit  for  modern  knights 
To  copy  out  in  frays  and  fights 
(Like  those  that  a  whole  street  do  raze, 
To  build  a  palace  in  the  place), 
They  never  care  how  many  others 
They  kill,  without  regard  of  mothers. 
Or  wives,  or  children,  so  they  can 
Make  up  some  fierce,  dead-doing  man, 
Comnos'd  of  many  ingredient  valors. 
Just  like  the  manhood  of  nine  tailors. 

'  ««  That  had  read  Alexander  Ross  over." — A  tedious  and  volumin- 
ous writer  of  divinity. 


SELF-POSSESSION. 

'T  is  not  restraint  or  liberty, 
That  makes  men  prisoners  or  free, 
But  perturbations  that  possess 
The  mind,  or  equanimities. 


BUTLER.  185 


The  whole  world  was  not  half  so  wide 
To  Alexander  when  he  cried 
Because  he  had  but  one  to  siibdue. 
As  was  a  paltry  narrow  tub  to 
Diogenes,  who  is  not  said 
(For  aught  that  ever  I  could  read) 
To  whine,  put  finger  i'  th'  eye,  and  sob 
Because  he  had  ne'er  another  tub} 

^  "  Another  <J<6."— Diogenes,  who  desired  Alexander  to  "  stand 
out  of  his  sunshine,"  is  here  made  to  turn  the  tables  a  second 
time  and  in  the  happiest  manner,  on  the  great  spoiled  child  of 
Victory, 


MISCELLANEOUS  PASSAGES  AMD  RHYMES. 

"  O  Heaven  !"  quoth  she,  "  can  that  be  true  ? 
I  do  begin  to  fear  'tis  you  ; 
Not  by  your  individual  whiskers. 
But  by  your  dialect  and  discourse." 


A  torn  beard's  like  a  batter'd  ensign  ; 
That's  bravest  which  there  are  most  rents  in. 


Th'  extremes  of  glory  and  of  shame. 
Like  east  and  west,  become  the  same. 
No  Indian  prince  has  to  his  palace 
More  followers  than  a  thief  to  the  gallows. 


— Wholesale  critics,  that  in  coffee- 
Houses  cry  down  all  philosophy. 


— Antichristian  assemblies 

To  mischief  bent  as  far  's  in  thim  lies. 


Bruis'd  in  body. 
And  conjured  into  safe  custody. 


That  proud  dame 

Used  him  so  like  a  base  rascallion. 

That  old  Pyg — what  d'  ye  call  \i\.m—malion. 


186  BUTLER. 


That  cut  his  mistress  out  of  stone. 
Had  not  so  hai'd  a  hearted  one. 


It  was  a  question  whether  he 

Or  's  horse  were  of  a  family 

More  worshipful ;  till  antiquaries. 

After  they'd  almost  por'd  out  their  eyes. 

Did  very  learnedly  decide 

The  business  on  the  horse's  side. 


Have  they  invented  tones  to  win 
The  women,  and  make  them  draw  in 
The  men  ;  as  Indians  with  a  female 
Tame  elephant  inveigle  the  male  ? 


Doctor  epidemic, 
Stor'd  with  deletery  medicines. 
Which  whosoever  took  is  dead  since. 


So  th'  Emperor  Caligula, 
That  triumph'd  o'er  the  British  sea, 
Took  crabs  and  oysters  prisoners, 
And  lobsters  'stead  of  cuirassiers ; 
Engaged  l>is  legions  in  fierce  bustles 
With  periwinkles,  prawns,  and  mussels. 
And  led  his  troops,  with  furious  gallops. 
To  charge  whole  regimetits  of  scallops. 


Madame,  I  do,  as  is  my  duty 
Honor  the  shadoio  of  your  shoe-tie. 


Conven'd  at  midnight  in  outhouses. 
To  appoint  new  rising  venAezv ouses. 


'Mong  these  there  was  a  politician. 
With  more  heads  than  a  beast  in  vision.— 
So  politic,  as  if  one  eye 
Upon  the  other  were  a  spy 
That  to  trepan  the  one  to  think 
The  other  blind,  both  strove  to  blink.^ 

I  "  Strove  to  blink." — This  was  Lord   Shaftesbury.     What  an 


BUTLER.  1S7 


idea  of  craft  and  self-deception  !  a  man's  two  eyes,  the  most 
united  and  friendly  of  all  things,  and  which  cannot  stir  but  in 
unison,  endeavoring  to  outwit  one  another ! 


PASSAGES  FROM  THE  POSTHUMOUS  POEMS, 

CAUTION  AGAINST  OVER-REFORM. 

Should  once  the  world  resolve  f  abolish 
All  that's  ridiculous  and  foolish. 
It  tvould  have  nothing  left  to  do, 
T'  apply  in  jest  or  earnest  to  ; 
JVo  business  of  importance,  play. 
Or  state,  to  pass  the  time  away. 


LOFTY  CARRIAGE  OF  IGNORANCE. 

The  truest  characters  of  ignorance, 

Are  vanity,  and  pride,  and  arrogance ; 

jJs  blind  men  use  to  bear  their  noses  higher 

Than  those  that  have  their  eyes  and  sight  entiri 


CAUTION  AGAINST  PROSELYTISM. 

More  proselytes  and  converts  use  t'  accrue 
To  false  persuasions  than  the  right  and  true; 
For  error  and  mistake  are  infinite. 
But  truth  has  but  one  way  to  be  i'  th'  right. 


The  greatest  saints  and  sinners  have  been  made 
Of  proselytes  of  one  another's  trade. 


A  convert 's  but  a  fly,  that  turns  about 
After  his  head's  puU'd  off,  to  find  it  out. 


18S  BUTLER. 


HOLLAND  AND  THE  DUTCH. 

A  cou7itry  that  draws  fifty  foot  of  water  ; 
In  which  men  live,  as  in  the  hold  ofJVature  ; 
That  feed,  like  cannibals,  on  other  fishes, 
And  serve  their  cousins- german  up  in  dishes  ; — 
A  land  that  rides  at  anchor,  and  is  moored  ; 
In  which  men  do  not  live,  but  go  aboard} 

'  Our  great  satirist  is  here  indulging  himself  in  one  of  the 
pleasant  "  extravagances "  which  he  recommends  as  refresh- 
ments of  thought :  but  it  is  impossible  to  take  leave  of  extracts 
from  such  a  writer  without  expressing  a  kind  of  transport  at  the 
perfection  of  his  wit  and  good  sense. 


DRYDEN.  189 


D  R  YD  E  N . 

BORN,    1631 DIED,    1701. 


If  Dryden  had  been  cast  in  a  somewhat  finer  mould,  and  added 
sentiment  to  his'- other  qualifications,  he  would  have  been  almost 
as  great  a  poet  in  the  world  of  nature,  as  he  was  in  that  of  art 
and  the  town.  He  had  force,  expression,  scholarship,  geniality, 
admirable  good  sense,  musical  enthusiasm.  The  rhymed  heroic 
couplet  in  his  hands  continues  still  to  be  the  finest  in  the  language. 
But  his  perceptions  were  more  acute  than  subtle  ;  more  sensual, 
by  far,  than  spiritual.  The  delicacy  of  them  had  no  proportion 
to  the  strength.  He  prized  the  flower,  but  had  little  sense  of  the 
fragrance ;  was  gross  as  well  as  generous  in  his  intellectual  diet  j 
and  if  it  had  not  been  genuine  and  hearty,  would  have  shown  an 
almost  impudent  delight  in  doing  justice  to  the  least  refined  of 
Nature's  impressions.  His  Venus  was  not  the  Celestial.  He 
would  as  soon  have  described  the  coarsest  flower,  as  a  rose ; 
sooner,  if  it  was  large  and  luxuriant.  His  very  repentance  has 
more  relish  of  sin,  than  regret;  though,  indeed,  he  was  too  honest 
a  man  to  have  reason  to  regret  anything  very  strongly  ;  for  his 
faults  were  those  of  temperament  and  an  easy  disposition.  Even 
his  enmities,  powerfully  as  he  could  word  them,  were  but  those 
of  the  poet  and  partizan,  not  of  the  human  being.  They  required 
a  public  cause  or  repeated  private  offence  to  provoke  them.  Ho 
had  all  the  goodnature  and  placability  of  a  child  of  nature. 

Agreeably  to  this  character  of  his  genius,  Drydcn's  wit  is  less 
airy  than  masculine  ;  less  quick  to  move  than  eloquent  when 
roused  ;  less  productive  of  pleasure  and  love  than  admiration  and 
a  sense  of  his  mastery.     His  satire,  if  not  so  learned  and  univer- 


190  DRYDEN. 


sal  as  Butler's,  is  aimed  more  at  the  individual  and  his  public 
standing,  and  therefore  comes  more  home  to  us.  The  titled  wits 
of  the  day,  wlio  affected  alternately  to  patronize  and  to  correct 
him,  he  generally  submitted  to  with  his  natural  modesty,  and 
with  the  policy  of  a  poor  man  ;  but  when  the  humor  or  party 
necessity  came  upon  him,  he  seized  the  unlucky  individual,  as 
Gulliver  might  have  done  a  lord  of  Lilliput ;  and  gripping  him, 
and  holding  him  up  by  the  ribs,  exposed  his  pretensions,  limb  by 
limb,  to  the  spectator.  Still  it  was  rather  in  vindication  of  a 
power  derided,  or  of  a  sense  of  justice  provoked,  than  from  an 
ungenerous  desire  to  give  pain.  He  could  bestow  commendation 
on  the  offender ;  and  was  always  ready  to  break  off  into  some 
enthusiastic  strain  of  verse  or  reflection. 

The  famous  satire  on  Shadwell  entitled  Mac  Flecnoe  (that  is  to 
say,  Flecnoe's  son)  is,  for  the  most  part,  so  coarse,  that  I  can  only 
quote  a  few  lines  fi'om  it,  which  I  have  accordingly  put  in  this 
place.  But  they  are  the  best.  They  are  comprised  in  the  exor- 
dium. Flecnoe,  the  bad  poet  indicated  by  Marvel  (see  p.  174), 
is  supposed  to  abdicate  the  throne  of  Dulness  in  favor  of  its  heir- 
apparent  Shadwell.  Shadwell  had  repeatedly  intimated  his  own 
superiority  compared  with  Dryden,  as  a  writer  of  plays  ;  and  he 
was  newly  appointed  laureate  to  King  William,  who  had  ousted 
James  the  Second  and  his  greater  laureate ;  so  that  Dryden  had 
every  provocation  against  him,  political  and  poetical. 

All  human  things  are  subject  to  decay, 
And  when  fate  summons,  monarchs  must  obey  ; 
This  Flecnoe  found,  who,  like  Augustus,  young, 
Was  call'd  to  empire,  and  had  govern'd  long  : 
In  prose  and  verse  was  own'd  without  dispute. 
Through  all  the  realms  of  J\"onsense,  absolute. 
This  aged  prince,  now  governing  in  peace, 
And  blest  with  issue  of  a  large  increase, 
Worn  out  with  business,  did  at  length  debate 
To  settle  the  succession  of  the  state  ; 
And,  pondering  which  of  all  his  sons  was  fit 
To  reign,  and  wage  immortal  war  with  wit, 
Cry'd,  'Tis  resolv'd ;  for  nature  pleads,  that  he 
Should  only  rule,  who  most  resembles  me. 
Shadwell  alone  my  perfect  image  bears ; 
Mature  in  dulness  from  his  tender  years : 


DRYDEN.  191 


Shadwell  alone,  of  all  my  sous,  is  he 

Who  stands  confirm'd  in  full  stupidity. 

The  rest  to  some  faint  meaning  make  pretence. 

But  Shadwell  never  deviates  into  sense.  

Some  beams  of  wit  on  other  souls  may  fall. 
Strike  through,  and  make  a  lucid  interval :  ^^ 
But  Shadwell's  genuine  night  admits  no  ray; 
His  rising  fogs  prevail  against  the  day. 
Besides,  his  goodly  fabric  fills  the  eye. 
And  seems  design'd  for  thoughtless  majesty; 
Thoughtless  as  monarch  oaks,  that  shade  the  plain, 
And  spread  in  solemn  state  supinely  reign. 
Heywood  and  Shirley  were  but  types  of  thee, 
Thou  last  great  prophet  of  tautology  ! 

Heywood  and  Shirley  were  dramatic  writers  of  the  past  age, 
both  superior  to  what  Dryden  here  intimates  of  them  ;  but  he 
saw  their  tediousness  and  commonplace,  and  did  not  feel  their 
sentiment.  Shadwell  was  a  great  fat  debauchee,  who  mistook  will 
for  genius ;  and  because  he  enjoyed  the  humor  of  Ben  Jonson, 
and  was  not  indeed  altogether  destitute  of  humor  himself,  poured 
forth  a  profusion  of  shallow  dialogue,  which  was  the  very  dotage 
of  pertness.  As  to  his  "  poetry,"  the  reader  may  see  a  specimen 
of  it  in  "  Imagination  and  Fancy,"  p.  31. 

It  is  a  curious  oversight  of  Dryden's  in  this  satire,  that  he 
should  put  the  best  wit  of  it  into  the  mouth  of  Flecnoe  himself. 


CHARACTER  OF  LORD  SHAFTESBURY.' 
From  the  poem  of  "  Absalom  and  Achitophel."* 

This  plot  which  fail'd  for  want  of  common  sense,t 
Had  yet  a  deep  and  dangerous  consequence  : 
For  as  when  raging  fevers  boil  the  blood. 
The  standing  lake  soon  floats  into  a  flood, 

•  "  Absalom  and  Achitophel"  is  a  satire,  under  Jewish  names,  upon  u- 
iiitrigues  of  Lord  Shaftesbury  and  the  Duke  of  Monmouth  against  the 
Catholic  and  Court  interest. 

t  The  Popish  Plot,  real  or  pretended,  which  was  sworn  to  by  the  infa- 
mous Titus  Gates. 


192  DRYDEN. 


And  every  hostile  humor,  which  before 

Slept  quiet  in  its  channels,  bubbles  o'er  ; 

So  several  factions,  from  this  first  ferment. 

Work  up  to  foam,  and  threat  the  government. 

Some  by  their  friends,  more  by  themselves,  thought  wise, 

Oppos'd  the  power  to  which  they  could  not  rise. 

Some  had  in  courts  been  great,  and,  thrown  from  thence. 

Like  fiends  were  harden'd  in  impenitence. 

Some,  by  their  monarch's  fatal  mercy,  grown. 

From  pardon'd  rebels,  kinsmen  to  the  throne. 

Were  rais'd  in  power,  and  public  office  high  ; 

Strong  bands,  if  bands  ungrateful  men  could  tie. 

Of  these  the  false  Achitophel  was  first, — 
A  name  lo  all  succeeding  ages  curst ; 
For  close  designs  and  crooked  councils  fit ; 
Sagacious,  bold,  and  tU7-bulentofwit; 
Restless,  unfix'd  in  principles  and  place, 
In  power  unpleas'd,  impatient  of  disgrace  ; 
A  fiery  soul,  that  working  out  its  way,  '\ 
Fretted  the  pigmy  body  to  decay,  > 

And  o''er-inforirCd  the  tenement  of  clay,  j 
A  daring  pilot  in  extremity. 

Pleased  with  the  danger  when  the  waves  went  high. 
He  sought  the  storms ;  but,  for  a  calm  unfit. 
Would  steer  too  7iigh  the  sands  to  shoiu  his  wit. 
Great  wits  to  madness  surely  are  allied. 
And  thin  partitions  do  their  bounds  divide  y^ 
Else,  why  should  he,  with  wealth  and  honor  blest. 
Refuse  his  age  the  needful  hours  of  rest ; 
Punish  a  body  which  he  could  not  please. 
Bankrupt  of  life,  yet  prodigal  of  ease. 
And  all  to  leave  what  with  such  toil  he  won. 
To  that  unfeather'' d  tioo-legg'd  thing,  a  son  ;' 
Got,  while  his  soul  did  huddled  notions  try. 
And  born  a  shapeless  lump,  like  anarchy  ? 

In  friendship  false,  implacable  in  hate, 
Resolv'd  to  ruin  or  to  rule  the  state. 
To  compass  this  the  triple  bond  he  broke,  i 
The  pillars  of  the  public  safety  shook,         > 
And  fitted  Israel  for  a  foreign' yoke  ;  ) 

Then,  seiz'd  with  fear,  yet  still  affecting  fame, 
Usurp'da  patriot's  all-atoning  name. 
So  easy  still  it  proves,  in  factious  times. 
With  public  zeal  to  cancel  private  crimes. 
How  safe  is  treason,  and  how  sacred  ill. 
Where  none  can  sin  against  the  people'' s  will  / 


DRYDEN.  193 


Where  crowds  can  loink,  and  no  offence  be  known, 
Since  in  another's  guilt  they  see  their  own. 

Yet  fame  deserv'd  no  enemy  can  grudge  ; 
The  statesman  we  abhor,  but  praise  the  judge. 
In  Israel's  courts  ne'er  sat  an  Abethdin* 
With  more  discerning  eyes,  or  hands  more  clean  ; 
Unbrib'd,  unsought,  the  wretched  to  redress  ; 
Swift  of  despatch,  and  easy  of  access. 
Oh  !  had  he  been  content  to  serve  the  crowa 
With  virtues  only  proper  to  the  gown. 
Or  had  the  rankness  of  the  soil  been  freed 
From  cockle  that  oppress'd  the  noble  seed, 
David  for  him  his  tuneful  liarp  had  strung. 
And  heaven  had  wanted  one  immortal  song. 

1  "  Character  of  Lord  Shaftesbury:'— Anthony  Ashley  Cooper,  first 
Earl  of  Shaftesbury,  a  mercurial  and  ambitious  man,  not  very 
well  principled  where  power  was  to  be  obtained,  but  not  indis- 
posed to  be  just  and  patriotic  when  possessed  of  it.  Even  the 
famous  reply  which  he  is  said  to  have  made  to  a  banter  of  Charles 
the  Second,  contained  a  sort  of  impudent  aspiration,  which  must 
have  at  once  disconcerted  and  delighted  the  merry  monarch  ;  for 
it  implied  that  his  majesty  and  he  stood  in  a  very  remarkable 
state  of  relationship. 

The  King.  Shaftesbury,  I  believe  thou  art  the  wickedest  dog  in  my 
dominions. 

Shaftesbury  (with  a  bow)-  May  it  please  your  majesty,  of  a  subject,  I 
believe  I  am." 

'  "  Great  wits  to  madness  surely  are  allied. 
And  thin  partitions  do  their  bounds  divide:^ 

The  truth  of  this  striking  couplet  may  seem  to  be  exemplified 
in  the  history  of  Swift  and  others  ;  but  it  is  not  the  greatness  of 
the  wit  that  is  allied  to  the  madness  ;  it  is  the  weakness  or  vio- 
lence of  the  will.  Rabelais  was  no  madman,  Moliere  was  none, 
Sterne  was  none,  Butler  none,  Horace,  Aristophanes,  Ariosto, 
Berni,  Voltaire,  Shakspeare,  Cervantes,  The  greater  the  wit,  for 
the  mo.st  part,  the  healtliier  the  understanding,  because  it  is  tho- 
roughly wisest  and  well-balanced.     Some  physical  irregularity 

•  A  Jewish  word  forjudge.     Shaftesbury  had  been  Ljord  Chancellor. 

10 


194  DRYDEN. 


or  accident  is  generally  at  the  bottom  of  the  madness  of  men  of 
genius.  Lee  was  a  drinker,  and  used  to  lie  at  night  in  the  streets. 
Swift  had  a  diseased  blood.  Poor  Collins  probably  got  the  seeds 
of  his  malady  in  the  gay  life  he  once  led  "  about  town,"  a  very 
unfit  one  for  his  sensitive  and  sequestered  turn  of  mind.  Cowper 
was  driven  mad  through  an  excessive  delicacy  of  organization 
frightened  by  Methodism ;  instead  of  being  soothed,  as  it  ought 
to  have  been,  by  the  liberal  opinions  natural  to  his  heart  and  good 
sense. 

^  "  To  that  unfeather'd  two-legg'd  thing,  a  son." — Father  of  the 
third  Earl  of  Shaftesbury,  the  philosopher ;  who  with  all  his 
philosophy  never  forgave  Dryden  this  attack  on  the  parental 
insignificance. 


CHARACTER  OF  THE  DUKE  OF  BUCKINGHAM. 
From  the  same  poetyt. 

A  numerous  host  of  dreaming  saints  succeed, 

Of  the  true  oiJ  enthusiastic  breed  : 

'Gainst  form  and  order  they  their  power  employ, 

Nothing  to  build,  and  all  things  to  destroy. 

But  far  more  numerous  was  the  herd  of  such, 

Who  think  too  little,  and  who  talk  too  much. 

These  out  of  mere  instinct,  they  knew  not  why, 

Ador'd  their  fathers'  God,  and  property  ; 

And  by  the  same  blind  benefit  of  fate. 

The  Devil  and  the  JebusiiC  did  hate  ; 

Born  to  be  sav'd,  even  in  their  own  despite. 

Because  they  could  not  help  believing  right. 

Such  were  the  tools  ;  but  a  whole  hydra  more 

Remains  of  sprouting  heads  too  long  to  score. 

Some  of  their  chiefs  were  princes  of  the  land. 

In  the  first  rank  of  these  did  Zimri  stand  ; 

A  man  so  various,  that  he  seem'd  to  be 

Not  one,  but  all  mankind's  epitome ; 

Stiff  in  opinion,  always  in  the  wrotig. 

Was  everything  by  starts,  and  nothing  long  ; 

*  George  Villiers,  second  Duke  of  Buckingham,  son  of  the  favorite  of 
James  and  Charles  the  First. 


DRYDEN  195 


But,  in  the  course  of  one  revolving  moon. 
Was  chemist,  fiddler,  statestnan,  and  buffoon  ; 
Thtn  all  for  women,  painting,  rhyming,  drinking. 
Besides  ten  thousand  freaks  that  died  in  thinking. 
Blest  madman,  who  could  every  hour  employ 
With  something  new  to  wish  or  to  enjoy  ! 
Railing  and  praising  were  his  usual  themes. 
And  both,  to  show  his  judgment  in  extremes  ; 
So  over  violent,  or  over  civil, 
That  every  man  with  him  was  God  or  Devil. 
In  squandering  wealth  was  his  peculiar  art ; 
A^othing  went  unrewarded  but  desert. 
Beggar'd  by  fools  whom  still  he  found  too  late. 
He  had  his  jest,  and  they  had  his  estate. 
He  laugh'd  himself  from  court ;  then  sought  relief 
By  forming  parties,  but  could  ne'er  be  chief: 
For  spite  of  him  the  weight  of  business  fell 
On  Absalom  and  false  Achitophel 
Thus,  wicked  but  in  tvill,  of  means  bereft. 
He  left  not  faction,  but  of  that  was  left.^ 

'  "  Character  of  the  Duke  of  Buckingham." — The  duke  intrigued 
against  a  giddy  and  unprincipled  court  out  of  pure  similarity  of 
disposition.  Dryden's  attack  on  him  was  partly  in  payment 
for  offence  received  in  the  critical  comedy  of  The  Rehearsal. 
His  Grace  was  very  angry,  and  replied  in  a  wretched  pamphlet, 
which  is  forgotten. — See  the  interesting  notes  on  Walter  Scott's 
edition  of  Dryden,  vol.  ix.,  p.  272. 

2  "  He  left  not  faction,  hut  of  that  was  left."— See,  in  the  present 
volume,  the  rival  portrait  of  Buckingham  from  the  hand  of 
Pope. 


FOPPERIES  OF  THE  TIME. 

{Being  the  Epilogue  to  Etherege's  "Man  of  MorE,  or  Sir  Foplinq 

Flutter." 

Most  modern  wits  such  monstrous  fools  have  shown, 
They  seem  not  of  Heaven's  making,  but  their  own: 
Those  nauseous  harlequins  in  farce  may  pass, 
But  there  goes  more  to  a  sidjstantial  ass : 


196  DRYDEN. 


Something  of  man  must  be  expos'd  to  view, 
That,  gallants,  he  may  more  resemble  you. 
Sir  Fopling  is  a  fool  so  nicely  writ. 
The  ladies  would  mistake  him  for  a  wit. 
And  when  he  sings,  talks  loud,  and  cocks,*  would  cry, 
"  I  vow,  methinks,  he's  pretty  company  ;" 
'  So  brisk,  so  gay,  so  travell'd,  so  refin'd. 
As  he  took  pains  to  graff'  upon  his  kind. 

True  fops  help  Nature's  work,  and  go  to  school, 
To  file  and  finish  God  Almighty's  fool 
Yet  none  Sir  Fopling  him,  or  him,  can  call ; 
Jffe's  knight  o'  tK  shire,  and  represents  you  all. 
From  each  he  meets  he  culls  whate'er  he  can ; 
Legion  's  his  name — a  people  in  a  man. 
His  bulky  folly  gathers  as  it  goes, 
And,  rolling  o'er  you,  like  a  snow-ball  grows. 
His  various  modes  from  various  fathers  follow  ; 
One  taught  the  toss,  and  one  the  new  French  wallow. 
His  sword-knot  this,  his  cravat  that  design'd  ; 
And  this,  the  yard-long  snake  he  twirls  behind  f 
From  one  the  sacred  periwig  he  gain'd. 
Which  wind  ne'er  blew,  7ior  touch  of  hat  prof  an' d. 
Another's  diving  bow  he  did  adore. 
Which,  with  a  shog,  casts  all  the  hair  before  ; 
Till  he  with  full  decorum  brings  it  back, 
Ajid  rises  ivith  a  water-spaniel  shake. 

As  for  his  songs,  the  ladies'  dear  delight. 
These  sure  he  took  from  most  of  you  who  write. 
Yet  every  man  is  safe  from  what  he  fear'd. 
For  no  one  fool  is  hunted  from  the  herd. 


THE  CATHOLIC  AND   PROTESTANT  CLERGY. 

From  the  "  Hind  and  the  Panther." 

A  plain  good  man  whose  name  is  understood^: 
(So  few  deserve  the  name  of  plain  and  good) 
Of  three  fair  lineal  lordships  stood  possess'd. 
And  liv'd,  as  reason  was,  upon  the  best. — 

■•  Videlicet,  his  hat. 

f  I  know  not  what  he  means  by  this. 

X  James  II. — Dryden  was  at  this  time  a  Catholic. 


DRYDEN.  197 


His  house  with  all  convenience  was  purvey'd 
The  rest  he  found,  but  rais'd  the  fabric  where  he  pray'd.* 
And  in  that  sacred  place  his  beauteous  wife 
Employ'd  her  happiest  hours  of  lioly  life. 

Nor  did  their  alms  extend  to  those  alone, 
Whom  common  faith  more  strictly  made  their  own 
A  sort  of  Dovesf  were  hous'd  too  near  their  hall. 
Who  cross  the  proverb,  and  abound  in  gall. 
Though  some,  't  is  true,  are  passively  inclin'd. 
The  greater  part  degenerate  from  their  kind  ; 
Voracious  birds,  that  hotly  bill  and  breed, 
And  largely  drink,  because  on  salt  they  feed. 
Small  gain  from  them  their  bounteous  owner  draws ;  'i 
Yet,  bound  by  promise,  he  supports  their  cause,  > 

As  corporations  privileg'd  by  laws.  ) 

Another  farm  he  had  behind  his  house, 
Not  overstock'd,  but  barely  for  his  use  • 
Wherein  his  poor  Domestic  Poultry  fed. 
And  from  his  pious  hands  receiv'd  their  bread. J 
Our  pamper'd  Pigeons,  with  malignant  eyes. 
Beheld  these  inmates  and  their  nurseries  : 
Though  hard  their  fare  at  evening  and  at  morn 
(A  cruise  of  water  and  an  ear  of  corn),' 
Yet  still  they  grudg'd  that  modicum,  and  thought 
A  sheaf  in  every  single  grain  was  brought: 
Fain  would  they  filch  that  little  food  away, 
While  unrestrain'd  these  happy  gluttons  prey; 
And  much  they  griev'd  to  see  so  nigh  their  hall, 
The  bird  that  warn'd  St.  Peter  of  his  fall  f 
That  he  should  raise  his  mitred  crest  on  high, 

And  clap  his  wings,  and  call  his  family 
To  sacred  rites  ;  and  vex  the  Ethereal  powers 
With  midnight  matins  at  uncivil  hours  ; 
Nay  more,  his  quiet  neighbors  should  molest 

Just  in  the  sweetness  of  their  morning  rest. 

Beast  of  a  bird,^  supinely  when  he  might 

Lie  still  and  sleep,  to  rise  before  the  light. 

What  if  his  dull  forefathers  us'd  that  cry. 

Could  he  not  let  a  bad  example  die  .' 

The  world  was  fall'n  into  an  easier  way : 

This  age  knew  better  than  to  fast  and  pray. 

•  The  Catholic  chapel  set  up  by  James  in  Whitehall. 
t  The  clergy  of  the  Church  of  England.     It  is  amusing  to  see  them  re- 
presented as  living  on  the  "  alms"  of  the  barely  tolerated  king. 
X  The  Catholic  clergy  maintained  by  the  king. 


19S  DRYDEN 


Good  sense  in  sacred  worship  would  appear. 

So  to  begin,  as  they  might  end  the  year. 

Such  feats  in  former  times  had  wrought  the  falls 

Of  crowing  chanticleers  in  cloister'd  walls. 

Expell'd  for  this,  and  for  their  lands,  they  fled ;  ^ 

And  sister  Partlet  with  her  hooded  head*  > 

Was  hooted  hence  because  she  would  not  pray  a-bed.     ) 

The  way  to  win  the  restiff  world  to  God, 

Was  to  lay  by  the  disciplining  rod, 

Unnatural  fasts,  and  foreign  forms  of  prayer  : 

Religion  frights  us  with  a  mien  severe. 

'T  is  prudence  to  reform  her  into  ease. 

And  put  her  in  undress,  to  make  her  please. 

A  lively  faith  will  bear  aloft  the  mind. 

And  leave  the  Ivggage  of  good  works  behind. 

1  "  A  cruise  of  water  and  an  ear  of  corn."— The  ideal  monastic 
regimen  !  very  difierent  from  that  of  monks  in  general. 

^  "  The  bird  that  warn'd  St.  Peter  of  his  fall." — This  verse  is  from 
Spenser : — 

"  The  bird  that  warned  Peter  of  his  fall." 

Spenser,  Avhom  chance  had  put  on  the  side  of  the  Puritans  (for  no 
man  would  naturally  have  been  more  for  a  gorgeous  creed  than 
he),  not  unwillingly  omitted  the  title  of  Saint  to  Peter.  The 
Catholic  Dryden  as  willingly  availed  himself  of  the  abbreviated 
past  ten.se  to  restore  it.  The  reader  may  remember  Sir  Roger 
de  Coverley's  perplexity  at  the  successive  rebukes  he  received, 
when  a  little  boy,  from  a  Catholic  for  asking  his  way  to  "  Mary- 
bone,"  and  from  a  Puritan  for  restoring  the  saint  her  title. 

5  "  Beast  of  a  bird."— What  a  happy  anomaly,  and  vigor  of 
alliteration  !  How  well  it  comes,  too,  after  the  fond  pathos  of  the 
luxury  of  the  line  before  it ! 


*  The  Nuns. 


PHILIPS.  1S9 


PHILIPS. 

BORN,    1676 DIED,    1708. 


John  Philips  was  a  young  and  lively  writer,  who,  having  suc- 
ceeded in  a  burlesque,  was  unfortunately  induced  to  attempt 
serious  poetry,  and  devoted  himself  to  it  M'ith  a  scholarly  dulness 
v.-hich  he  would  probably  have  seen  the  folly  of  in  any  one  else. 
His  serious  imitations  of  Milton  are  not  worth  a  penny  ;  but  his 
burlesque  of  the  style  of  Paradise  Lost,  though  it  no  longer 
possesses  the  novelty  which  made  it  popular,  is  still  welcome  to 
the  lover  of  wit.  The  low  every-day  circumstances,  and  the 
lofty  classic  manner  with  its  nomenclatures,  are  happily  inter- 
woven ;  the  more  trivial  words  are  brought  in  with  unlooked-for 
effect;  the  motto  is  particularly  felicitous;  and  the  comparison 
of  the  rent  in  the  small-clothes  with  the  ship  that  has  sprung  a 
leak  at  sea,  and  founders,  concludes  the  poem  with  a  tremendous 
and  calamitous  grandeur,  only  to  be  equalled  by  tJie  exclamation 
of  the  Spaniard  ;  who  said  lie  had  torn  his  "  breeches,  as  if  heaven 
and  earth  had^come  together." 


THE  SPLENDID  SHILLING. 

"  Sing,  heavenly  muse, 
Things  unattcmptcd  yet  iit  prose  or  rhyme;" 
•A  shilling,  breeches,  and  chimeras  dire. 

Happy  the  rnan,  wlio,  void  of  cares  and  strife, 

In  silken  or  in  leathern  purse  retains 

^  Splendid  Shilling :  he  nor  hears  with  pain 


20C  PHILIPS. 


New  oysters  cry'd,  nor  sighs  for  cheerful  ale ; 

But  with  his  friends,  when  nightly  mists  arise, 

To  Juniper's  Magpye,  or  Town-hall  repairs  ; 

Where,  mindful  of  the  nymph,  whose  wanton  eye 

Transfix'd  his  soul,  and  kindled  amorous  flames, 

Chloe  or  Phyllis,  he  each  circling  glass 

Wisheth  her  health,  and  joy,  and  equal  love. 

Meanwhile,  he  smokes,  and  laughs  at  merry  tale, 

Or  pun  ambiguous  or  conundrum  quaint. 

But  I,  whom  griping  penury  surrounds. 

And  hungei',  sure  attendant  upon  want, 

With  scanty  offals,  and  small  acid  ti_ff 

(  Wretched  repast  !)  my  meagre  corpse  sustain  : 

Then  solitary  walk,  or  doze  at  home 

In  garret  vile,  and  rvith  a  warming  puff 

Regale  chilVd  fingers  ;  or  from  tube  as  black 

As  winter- chimney,  or  well  polish'd  jet. 

Exhale  mundungus,  ill-perfuming  scent. 

JSTot  blacker  tube,  nor  of  a  shorter  size. 

Smokes  Cambro-Briton  (vers'd  in  pedigree, 

Sprung  from  Cadwallador  and  Arthur,  kings 

Full  famous  in  romantic  tale)  when  he 

O'er  many  a  craggy  hill  and  barren  cliff, 

Upon  a  cargo  of  fam'd  Cestrian  cheese. 

High  over-shadowing  rides,  with  a  design 

To  wend  his  wares  at  the  Arvonian  mart. 

Or  Maridunum,  or  the  ancient  town 

Yclep'd  Brechinia,  or  where  Vaga's  stream 

Encircles  Aricotiium,  fruitful  soil .' 

Whence  flow  nectareous  wines,  that  well  may  vie 

With  Massic,  Setin,  or  renown'd  Falern. 

Thus,  while  my  joyless  minutes  tedious  flow, 
With  looks  demure,  and  silent  pace,  a  Dun, 
Horrible  monster  !  hated  by  gods  and  men. 
To  my  aerial  citadel  ascends.* 
With  vocal  heel  thrice  thundering  at  my  gate, 
With  hideous  accent  thrice  he  calls  ;  I  know 
The  voice  ill-boding,  and  the  solemn  sound. 
What  should  I  do  .'  or  whither  turn  .'     Amaz'd, 
Confounded,  to  the  dark  recess  I  fly 
Of  wood-hole  ;  straight  my  bristling  hairs  erect 
Through  sudden  fear  ;  a  chilly  sweat  bedews 
My  shuddering  limbs,  and  (wonderful  to  tell !) 
My  tongue  forgets  her  faculty  of  speech  ; 

*  To-wit,  his  garret. 


PHILIPS.  201 


So  horrible  he  seems  !     His  faded  brow 
Entrench'd  with  many  a  frown,  and  conic  beard. 
And  spreading  band,  admir'd  by  modern  saints. 
Disastrous  acts  forebode  ;  in  his  right  hand 
Long  scrolls  of  paper  solemnly  he  waves. 
With  characters  and  figures  dire  inscrib'd, 
Grievous  to  mortal  eyes  (ye  gods  avert 
Such  plagues  from  righteous  men  !)     Behind  him  stalks 
Another  monster,  not  unlike  itself. 
Sullen  of  aspect,  by  the  vulgar  call'd 
.9.  Catchpole,  ichose  polluted  hands  the  gods 
With  force  incredible,  and  magic  charms, 
First  have  endued  :  if  he  his  ample  palm 
Should  haply  on  ill-fated  shoulder  lay 
Of  debtor,  straight  his  body  to  the  touch 
Obsequious  (as  whilom  knights  were  wont) 
To  some  enchanted  castle  is  conveipd. 
Where  gates  impregnable,  and  coercive  chains, 
In  durance  strict  detain  him,  till,  in  form 
Of  money,  Pallas  sets  the  captive  free. 

Beware,  ye  debtors !  when  ye  walk,  beware. 
Be  circumspect;  oft  with  insidious  ken 
The  caitiff  eyes  your  steps  aloof,  and  oft 
Lies  perdue  in  a  nook  or  gloomy  cave, 
Prompt  to  enchant  some  inadvertent  wretch 
With  his  unhallow'd  touch.     So  (poets  sing) 
Grimalkin  to  domestic  vermin  sworn 
An  everlasting  foe,  with  watchful  eye 
Lies  nightly  brooding  o'er  a  chinky  gap. 
Portending  her  fell  claws,  to  thoughtless  mice 
Sure  ruin.     So  her  disembowell'd  web 
Arachne,  in  a  hall  or  kitchen,  spreads 
Obvious  to  vagrant  flies  :  she  secret  stands 
Within  her  woven  cell;  the  humming  prey. 
Regardless  of  their  fate,  rush  on  the  toils 
Inextricable,  nor  will  aught  avail 
Their  arts,  or  arms,  or  shapes  of  lovely  hue. 
The  wasp  insidious,  and  the  buzzing  drone, 
And  butterfly  proud  of  expanded  wings 
Distinct  with  gold,  entangled  in  her  snares. 
Useless  resistance  make ;  with  eager  strides, 
She  towering  flies  to  her  expected  spoils: 
Then  with  envenom'd  jaws  the  vital  blood 
Drinks  of  reluctant  foes,  and  to  her  cave 
Their  bulky  carcasses  triumphant  drags. 

10*  V. 


202  PHILIPS. 


So  pass  my  days.     But  when  nocturnal  shades 
This  world  envelope,  and  th'  inclement  air 
Persuades  men  to  repel  benumbing  frosts 
With  pleasant  wines,  and  crackling  blaze  of  wood 
Me,  lonely  sitting,  nor  the  glimmering  light 
Of  make-weight  candle,  nor  the  joyous  talk 
Of  loving  friend,  delights  ;  distress'd,  forlorn. 
Amidst  the  horrors  of  the  tedious  night. 
Darkling  I  sigh,  and  feed  with  dismal  thoughts 
My  anxious  mind  ;  or  sometimes  mournful  verse 
Indite,  and  sing  of  groves  and  myrtle  shades, 
Or  desperate  lady  near  a  purling  stream, 
Or  lover  pendent  on  a  willow-tree. 
Meanwhile  I  labor  with  eternal  drought. 
And  restless  wish,  and  rave  ;  my  parched  throat 
Finds  no  relief,  nor  heavy  eyes  repose  : 
But  if  a  slumber  haply  does  invade 
My  weary  limbs,  my  fancy,  still  awake. 
Thoughtful  of  drink,  and  eager,  in  a  dream. 
Tipples  imaginary  pots  of  ale  ; 
In  vain ; — awake  I  find  the  settled  thirst 
Still  gnawing,  and  the  pleasant  phantom  curse. 

Thus  do  I  live,  from  pleasure  quite  debarr'd. 
Nor  taste  the  fruits  that  the  sun's  genial  rays 
Mature,  john-apple,  nor  the  downy  peach. 
Nor  walnut  in  rough -furrowed  coat  secure. 
Nor  medlar  fruit  delicious  in  decay  ; 
Afflictions  great !  yet  greater  still  remain. 
My  galligaskins,  that  have  long  withstood 
The  winter's  fury  and  encroaching  frosts. 
By  time  subdued  {what  will  not  time  subdue/) 
An  horrid  chasm  disclose  with  orifice 
Wide,  discontinuous  ;  at  which  the  winds 
Eurus  and  Auster  and  the  dreadful  force 
Of  Boreas,  that  congeals  the  Cronian  waves, 
Tumultuous  enter  with  dire  chilling  blasts. 
Portending  agues.     Thus  a  well-fraught  ship. 
Long  sails  secure,  or  through  the  ^gean  deep, 
Or  the  Ionian,  till  cruising  near 
The  Lilybean  shore,  with  hideous  crush 
On  Scylla  or  Charybdis  (dangerous  rocks) 
She  strikes  rebounding;  whence  the  shatter'd  oak. 
So  fierce  a  shock  unable  to  withstand. 
Admits  the  sea.     In  at  the  gaping  side 
The  crowding  waves  gush  with  impetuous  rage, 


PHILIPS.  203 


Resistless,  overwhelming.     Horrors  seize 

The  mariners  ;  death  in  their  eyes  appears ; 

They  stare,  they  lave,  they  pump,  they  swear,  they  pray. 

(Vain  efforts)  still  the  battering  waves  rush  in, 

Implacable,  till,  delug'd  by  the  foam. 

The  ship  sinks  foundering  in  the  vast  abyss. 


204  POPE 


POPE. 

BORN,    1688 DIED,    1744. 


Besides  being  an  admirable  wit  and  satirist,  and  a  man  of  the 
most  exquisite  good  sense,  Pope  was  a  true  poet ;  and  though  in 
all  probability  his  entire  nature  could  never  have  made  him  a 
great  one  (since  the  whole  man  contributes  to  form  the  genius, 
and  the  very  weakness  of  his  organization  was  in  the  way  of  it), 
yet  in  a  different  age  the  boy  who  wrote  the  beautiful  verses, 

Blest  be  the  man  whose  wish  and  care, 

would  have  turned  out,  I  think,  a  greater  poet  than  he  was.  He 
had  more  sensibility,  thought,  and  fancy,  than  was  necessary  for 
the  purposes  of  his  school ;  and  he  led  a  sequestered  life  with  his 
books  and  his  grotto,  caring  little  for  the  manners  he  drew,  and 
capable  of  higher  impulses  than  had  been  given  him  by  the  wits 
of  the  time  of  Charles  the  Second.  It  was  unlucky  for  him  (if 
indeed  it  did  not  produce  a  lucky  variety  for  the  reading  world) 
that  Dryden  came  immediately  before  him.  Dryden,  a  robuster 
nature,  was  just  great  enough  to  mislea.d  Pope;  and  French 
ascendency  completed  his  fate.  Perhaps,  after  all,  nothing  better 
than  such  a  honey  and  such  a  sting  as  this  exquisite  writer  de- 
veloped, could  have  been  got  out  of  his  little  delicate  pungent 
nature ;  and  we  have  every  reason  to  be  grateful  for  what  they 
have  done  for  us.  Hundreds  of  greater  pretensions  in  poetry 
have  not  attained  to  half  his  fame,  nor  did  they  deserve  it ;  for 
they  did  not  take  half  his  pains.  Perhaps  they  were  unable  to 
take  them,  for  want  of  as  good  a  balance  of  qualities.  Success 
is  generally  commensurate  with  its  grounds. 


POPE.  205 

Pope,  though  a  genius  of  a  less  masculine  order  than  Dryden, 
and  not  possessed  of  his  numbers  or  his  impulsiveness,  had  more 
delicacy  and  fancy,  has  left  more  passages  that  have  become 
proverbial,  and  was  less  confined  to  the  region  of  matter  of  fact. 
Dryden  never  soared  above  earth,  however  nobly  he  walked  it. 
The  little  fragile  creature  had  wings ;  and  he  could  expand  them 
at  will,  and  ascend,  if  to  no  great  imaginative  height,  yet  to 
charming  fairy  circles  just  above  those  of  the  world  about  him, 
disclosing  enchanting  visions  at  the  top  of  drawing-rooms,  and 
enabling  us  to  see  the  spirits  that  wait  on  coffee-cups  and  hoop- 
petlicoats.     But  more  of  this  in  the  notes. 

My  limits  have  allowed  me  to  give  only  a  portion  of  the  Rape 
of  the  Lock,  but  it  is  the  best  and  most  important,  containing  the 
two  main  points  of  the  poem, — the  Rape  itself,  and  the  leading 
operations  of  tlie  sylphi?. 

From  his  other  poems  I  have  also  selected  such  passages  as  are 
at  once  the  wittiest  and  of  the  most  ordinary  interest, — the  cha- 
racters which  he  drew  from  life. 


THE  SYLPHS  AND  THE  LOCK  OF  HAIR. 
From  "  The  Rape  of  the  Lock." 

What  dire  offence  from  amorous  causes  springs, 
What  mighty  contests  rise  from  trivial  things, 
I  sing. — This  verse  to  Caryl,  muse  !  is  due  ; 
This  ev'n  Belinda  may  vouchsafe  to  view  : 
Slight  is  the  subject,  but  not  so  the  praise. 
If  she  inspire,  and  he  approve  my  lays. 

Say  what  strange  motive,  goddess  !    could  compel 
A  well-bred  lord  t'  assault  a  gentle  belle  ? 
0  say  what  stranger  cause  yet  unexplor'd, 
Could  make  a  gentle  belle  reject  a  lord  ? 
In  tasks  so  bold  can  little  men  engage  ? 
And  in  soft  bosoms  dwells  such  mighty  rage  ?— 

Not  with  more  glories  in  th'  ethereal  plain, 
The  sun  first  rises  o'er  the  purpled  main. 
Than,  issuing  forth,  the  rival  of  his  beams 
Launch'd  on  the  bosom  of  the  silver'd  Thames. 


206  POPE. 

Fair  nymphs  and  well-dressed  youths  around  her  shone. 
But  every  eye  was  fix'd  on  her  alone. 
On  her  white  breast  a  sparkling  cross  she  wore. 
Which  Jews  iriightkiss  and  hifidels  adore. 
Her  lively  looks  a  sprightly  mind  disclose, 
Quick  as  her  eyes,  and  as  unfixed  as  those  : 
Favors  to  none,  to  all  she  smiles  extends ; 
Oft  she  rejects,  but  never  once  offends. 
Bright  as  the  sun,  her  eyes  the  gazers  strike, 
And,  like  the  sun,  they  shine  on  all  alike. 
Yet  graceful  ease,  and  sweetness  void  of  pride. 
Might  hide  her  faults,  if  belles  had  faults  to  hide  : 
If  to  her  share  some  female  errors  fall. 
Look  on  her  face,  and  you'll  forget  them  all. 

This  nymph,  to  the  destruction  of  mankind, 
Nourish'd  two  locks,  which  graceful  hung  behind 
In  equal  curls,  and  well  conspir'd  to  deck 
With  shining  ringlets  the  smooth  ivory  neck. 
Love  in  these  labyrinths  his  slaves  detains, 
And  mighty  hearts  are  held  in  slender  chains. 
With  hairy  springes  we  the  birds  betray  : 
Slight  lines  of  hair  surprise  the  finny  prey ; 
Fair  tresses  man's  imperial  race  ensnare, 
And  beauty  draws  us  with  a  single  hair. 

Th'  adventurous  Baron  the  bright  locks  admir'd ; 
He  saw,  he  wish'd,  and  to  the  prize  aspir'd. 
Resolv'd  to  win,  he  meditates  the  way, 
By  force  to  ravish,  or  by  fraud  betray ; 
For  when  success  a  lover's  toil  attends, 
Few  ask,  if  fraud  or  force  attain'd  his  ends. 

For  this,  ere  Phcebus  rose,  he  had  implor'd 
Propitious  Heav'n,  and  every  power  ador'd ; 
But  chiefly  Love — to  Love  an  altar  built, 
Of  twelve  vast  French  romances  neatly  gilt. 
There  lay  three  garters,  half  a  pair  of  gloves. 
And  all  the  trophies  of  his  former  loves. 
With  tender  billet-doux  he  lights  the  pyre. 
And  breathes  three  amorous  sighs  to  light  the  fire. 
Then  prostrate  falls,  and  begs  with  ardent  eyes 
Soon  to  obtain,  and  long  possess  the  prize. — 

But  now  secure  the  painted  vessel  glides. 
The  sunbeams  trembling  on  the  floating  tides ; 
While  melting  music  steals  upon  the  sky, 
And  soften'd  sounds  along  the  waters  die  ; 
Smooth  flow  the  waves,  the  zephyrs  gently  play, 
Belinda  smil'd,  and  all  the  world  was  gay. 


POPE.  207 

All  but  the  sylph.     With  careful  thoughts  opprest 
Th'  impending  woe  sat  heavy  on  his  breast. \ 
He  summons  straight  his  denizens  of  air ; 
The  lucid  squadrons  round  the  sails  repair; 
Soft  o'er  the  s/iroud  aerial  whispeis  breathe. 
That  seerrVd  but  zephyrs  to  the  train  beneath. 
Some  to  the  sun  their  insect  wings  unfold, 
Waft  on  the  breeze,  or  sink  in  clouds  of  gold  ; 
Transparent  forms,  too  fine  for  mortal  sight, 
Their  fluid  bodies  half  dissolv'd  in  light, 
Loose  to  the  wind  their  airy  garments  flew, 
Thin  glittering  textures  of  the  iilmy  dew, 
Dipp'd  in  the  richest  tinctures  of  the  skies. 
Where  light  disports  in  ever-mingling  dyes. 
While  every  beam  new  transient  colors  flings, 
Colors  that  change  whene'er  they  wave  their  wings. 
Amid  the  circle  on  the  gilded  mast, 
Superior  by  the  head  was  Ariel  plac'd  -^ 
His  purple  pinions  opening  to  the  sun. 
He  raised  his  azure  wand,  and  thus  begun  : 

"  Ye  sylphs  and  sylphids,  to  yourcljief  give  ear; 
Fays,  fairies,  genii,  elves,  and  demons,  hear  ! 
Ye  know  the  spheres,  and  various  tasks  assign'd 
By  law  eternal  to  th'  aerial  kind  : 
Some  in  the  fields  of  purest  asther  play. 
And  bask  and  whiten  in  the  blaze  of  day ; 
Some  guide  the  course  of  wandering  orbs  on  high, 
Or  roll  the  planets  through  the  boundless  sky  ; 
Some,  less  refin'd,  beneath  the  moon's  pale  light 
Pursue  the  stars  that  shoot  athwart  the  night. 
Or  suck  the  mists  in  grosser  air  below. 
Or  dip  their  pinions  in  the  painted  bow. 
Or  brew  fierce  tempests  on  the  wintry  main. 
Or  o'er  the  glebe  distil  the  kindly  rain  : 
Others  on  earth  o'er  human  race  preside. 
Watch  all  their  ways,  and  all  their  actions  guide  ; 
Of  these  the  chief  the  care  of  nations  own. 
And  guard  with  arms  divine  the  British  throne. 

"  Our  humbler  province  is  to  tend  the  fair, 
Not  a  less  pleasing,  though  less  glorious  care  ; 
To  save  the  'powder  from  too  rude  a  gale, 
J\''or  lei  the  imprisoned  essences  exhale : 
To  draw  fresh  colors  from  the  vernal  flowers  . 
To  steal  from  rainbows,  ere  they  drop  in  sliowevs, 
A  brighter  wash  ;  to  curl  their  waving  liairs. 
Assist  their  blushes,  and  inspire  their  airs  ; 


208  POPE. 

JVay,  oft  in  di-eams,  invention  we  bestow, 
To  change  a  flounce,  or  add  a  furbelow. 

"  This  day,  black  omens  threat  the  brightest  fair 
That  e'er  deserv'd  a  watchful  spirit's  care  ; 
Some  dire  disaster,  or  by  force,  or  slight ; 
But  what,  or  where  the  fates  have  wrapp'd  in  night. 
Whether  the  nymph  shall  break  Diana's  law. 
Or  some  frail  China-jar  receive  a  flaw  ; 
Or  stain  her  honor,  or  her  new  brocade: 
Forget  her  prayers,  or  miss  a  masquerade  ; 
Or  lose  her  heart,  or  necklace  at  a  ball ; 
Or  whether  Heaven  has  doomed  that  Shock  inust  fall. 
Haste  then,  ye  spirits  !  to  your  charge  repair  ; 
The  fluttering  fan  be  Zephyretta's  care  ; 
The  drops  to  thee,  Brillante,  we  consign  : 
And,  Momentilla,  let  the  watch  be  thine ; 
Do  thou,  Crispissa,  tend  her  favorite  Lock  ; 
Ariel  himself  shall  be  the  guard  of  Shock. 

"  To  fifty  chosen  sylphs,  of  special  note. 
We  trust  th'  important  charge,  the  petticoat  ; 
Oft  have  we  known  that  seven-fold  fence  to  fail, 
Tliough  stiff  witli  hoops,  and  arm'd  with  ribs  of  whale. 
Form  a  strong  line  about  the  silver  bound. 
And  guard  the  wide  circumference  around. 

"  Wliatever  spirit,  careless  of  his  charge, 
His  post  neglects,  or  leaves  the  fair  at  large, 
Shall  feel  sharp  vengeance  soon  o'ertake  his  sins. 
Be  stopped  in  vials,  or  transfix'd  with  pins  : 
Or  plung'd  in  lakes  of  bitter  washes  lie. 
Or  wedg'd  whole  ages  in  a  bodkin's  eye  ,-3 
Gums  and  pomatums  shall  liis  flight  restrain 
While  clogg'd  he  beats  his  silken  wings  in  vain. 
Or  alum  styptics  with  contracting  power 
Shrink  his  thin  essence  like  a  shrivell'd  flower  : 
Or,  as  Ixion  fix'd,  the  wretch  shall  feel 
The  giddy  motioiis  of  the  whirling  mill ; 
hi  fumes  of  burning  chocolate  shall  glow. 
And  tremble  at  the  sea  that  froths  below  .'" 

He  spoke  ;  the  spirits  from  the  sails  descend  ; 
Some,  orb  in  orb,  around  the  nymph  extend; 
Some  thrid  the  mazy  ringlets  of  her  hair ; 
Some  hang  upon  the  pendants  of  her  ear  ; 
With  beating  hearts  the  dire  event  they  wait. 
Anxious  and  trembling  for  the  birth  of  fate. 

Close  by  those  meads,  for  ever  crown'd  with  flowers, 
Where  Thames  with  pride  surveys  his  rising  towers, 


POPE.  209 

There  stands  a  structure  of  majestic  frame, 

Which  from  the  neighboring  Hampton  takes  its  name. 

Here  Britain's  statesmen  oft  the  fall  foredoom 

Of  foreign  tyrants,  and  of  nymphs  at  home  ; 

Here  thou,  great  Anna !  whom  three  realms  obey, 

JDost  sometimes  counsel  take — and  sometimes  tea. 

Hither  the  heroes  and  the  nymphs  resort, 
To  taste  awhile  the  pleasures  of  a  court; 
In  various  talk  th'  instructive  hours  they  past. 
Who  gave  the  ball,  or  j^aid  the  visit  last ; 
One  speaks  the  glory  of  the  British  queen, 
And  one  describes  a  charming  Indian  screen  ; 
A  third  interprets  motions,  looks,  and  eyes ; 
Jit  every  word  a  reputation  dies. 
S?iuff,  or  the  fan,  supply  each  pause  of  chat. 
With  singing,  laughing,  ogling,  and  all  that.^ 
0  thoughtless  mortals,  ever  blind  to  fate, 
Too  soon  dejected,  and  too  soon  elate  '. 

For  lo  !  the  board  with  cups  and  spoons  is  crown'd. 
The  berries  crackle  and  the  mill  turns  round  : 
On  shining  altars  of  Japan  they  raise 
The  silver  lamp  ;  the  fiery  spirits  blaze : 
From  silver  spouts  the  grateful  liquors  glide, 
While  China's  earth  receives  the  smoking  tide. 
At  once  they  gratil'y  their  scent  and  taste, 
And  frequent  cups  prolong  the  rich  repast. 
Straight  hover  round  the  fair  her  airy  band  ; 
Some,  as  she  sipp'd,  the  fuming  liquor  fann'd  ; 
Some,  o'er  her  lap  their  careful  plumes  display'd. 
Trembling,  and  conscious  of  the  rich  brocade. 
Coffee  {which  makes  the  politician  wise. 
And  see  through  all  things  with  his  half -shut  eyes) 
Sent  up  in  vapors  to  the  Baron's  brain 
New  stratagems  the  radiant  Lock  to  gain. 
Ah  cease,  rash  youth  !  desist  ere  'tis  too  late. 
Fear  the  just  gods,  and  think  of  Scylla's  fate  ! 
Chang'd  to  a  bird,  and  sent  to  flit  in  air, 
She  dearly  pays  for  Nisus'  injured  hair  I^ 

But  when  to  mischief  mortals  bend  their  will. 
How  soon  they  find  fit  instruments  of  ill  i 
Just  then  Clarissa  drew  with  tempting  grace 
A  two-edg'd  weapon  from  her  shining  case  ; 
So  ladies,  in  romance,  as.sist  their  knight. 
Present  the  spear,  and  arm  him  for  the  fight. 
He  takes  the  gift  with  reverence,  and  extends 
The  little  engine  on  his  fingers'  ends  : 


210  POPE. 

This  just  behind  Belinda's  neck  he  spread, 

As  o'er  the  fragrant  steams  she  bends  her  head. 

Swift  to  the  Lock  a  thousand  sp7-ites  repair, 

A  thousand  wings,  by  turns,  blow  back  the  hair  ; 

And.  thrice  they  twitch'd  the  diamond  in  her  ear  ; 

Thrice  she  look'd  back,  and  thrice  the  foe  drew  near. 

Just  in  that  instant  anxious  Ariel  sought 

The  close  recesses  of  the  virgin's  thought. 

As  on  the  nosegay  in  her  breast  reclin'd, 

He  watch'd  th'  ideas  rising  in  her  mind, 

Sudden  he  view'd,  in  spite  of  all  her  art, 
.  An  earthly  lover  lurking  at  her  heart.  ^ 
Amaz'd,  confus'd,  he  found  his  power  expir'd, 
Resign'd  to  fate,  and  with  a  sigh  retir'd. 

The  Peer  now  spreads  the  glittering  forfex  wide, 

T"  inclose  the  Lock  ;  7iow  joins  it,  to  divide. 

E'en  then,  before  the  fatal  engine  closed, 

A  wretched  sylph  too  fondly  interpos'd  ; 

Fate  nrg'd  the  sheais,  and  cut  the  sylph  in  twain 

{But  airy  substance  soon  unites  again)  ; 

The  meeting  points  the  sacred  hair  dissever 
From  the  fair  head  for  ever  and  for  ever  ! 
Then  flash'd  the  living  lightning  from  her  eyes, 
And  screams  of  horror  rend  the  affrighted  skies. 
Not  louder  shrieks  to  pitying  heaven  are  cast. 

When  husbands,  or  when  lap-dogs  breathe  their  last ! 
Or  when  rich  China  vessels,  fall'n  from  high. 
In  glittering  dust  and  painted  fragments  lie  ! 

"  Let  wreaths  of  triumpli  now  my  temples  twine 
(The  victor  cried),  the  glorious  prize  is  mine  ! 
While  fish  in  streams,  or  birds  delight  in  air, 
Or  in  a  coach-and-six  the  British  fair. 
As  long  as  Atalantis  shall  be  read,^ 
Or  the  small  pillow  grace  a  lady's  head. 
While  visits  shall  be  paid  on  solemn  days. 
When  numerous  wax-lights  in  bright  order  blaze, 
While  nymphs  take  treats,  or  assignations  give. 
So  long  my  honor,  name,  and  praise  shall  live  !" 

1  All  but  the  Sylph,  with  careful  thoughts  opprest, 
Th'  impending  woe  sat  heavy  on  his  breast. 

He  had  appeared  to  Belinda  in  a  dream,  and  warned  her 
against  a  lover. 

f  Superior  by  the  head  was  Ariel  plac'd. — Pope's  fairy  region, 
compared  with  Shakspeare's,  was  what  a  drawing-room  is  to  the 


POPE.  211 

universe.  To  give,  therefore,  to  the  sprite  of  the  Rape  of  the 
Lock  the  name  of  the  spirit  in  the  Tempest  was  a  bold  christening. 
Prospero's  Ariel  could  have  puffed  him  out  like  a  taper.  Or  he 
would  have  snuffed  him  up  as  an  essence  by  way  of  jest,  and 
found  him  flat.  But,  tested  by  less  potent  senses,  the  sylph  spe- 
cies is  an  exquisite  creation.  He  is  an  abstract  of  the  spirit  of 
fine  life  ;  a  suggester  of  fashions  ;  an  inspirer  of  airs  ;  would  be 
cut  to  pieces  rather  than  see  his  will  contradicted ;  takes  his  sta- 
tion with  dignity  on  a  picture-card ;  and  is  so  nice  an  adjuster 
of  claims,  that  he  ranks  hearts  with  necklaces.  He  trembles  for 
a  petticoat  at  the  approach  of  a  cup  of  chocolate.  The  punish- 
ments inflicted  on  him  when  disobedient  have  a  like  fitness.  He 
is  to  be  kept  hovering  over  the  fumes  of  the  chocolate ;  to  be 
transfixed  with  pins  ;  clogged  with  pomatums,  and  wedged  in  the 
eyes  of  bodkins.  Only  (with  submission)  these  punishments 
should  have  been  made  to  endure  for  seasons,  not  "  ages."  A 
season  is  an  age  for  a  sylph.  Does  not  a  fine  lady,  when  she 
dislikes  it,  call  it  "  an  eternity  ?" 

=  With  singing,  laughing,  ogling,  and  all  that.— Imagine  a  com- 
mon-place  poet  (if  some  friend  had  written  the  rest  of  this  couplet) 
trying  to  find  a  good  pointed  rhyme  for  the  word  "  chat."  How 
certain  he  would  have  been  7iot  to  think  of  this  familiar  phrase, 
precisely  because  he  was  in  the  habit  of  using  it  in  daily  par- 
lance  : — how  certain,  out  of  an  instinct  of  dulness,  to  avoid  his 
own  conventional  language,  on  the  only  occasion  which  could 
render  it  original. 

*  She  dearly  pai/s  for  Alms' injured  hair.— '^Is-as,  the  father  of 
Scylla,  and  king  of  Megaris,  had  a  lock  in  his  hair,  on  the  pre- 
servation of  which  depended  the  fate  of  his  capital.  Minos  be- 
sieged the  capital.  Scylla  fell  in  love  with  the  besieger,  cut  off 
the  lock,  and  was  changed  into  a  bird  by  the  gods.  See  the  story 
in  Ovid,  at  the  beginning  of  Book  the  Eighth. 

*  .in  earthly  lover  lurking  at  her  head. — He  had  warned  her  against 

it  in  a  dream. 

"  Jls  long  as  "  JIfalantis"  shall  be  read.— A  book  of  fashionable 
scandal  written  by  Mrs.  Manly.  Marmontel,  in  his  translation 
of  the  Rape  of  the  Lock  (generally  a  very  close  and  correct  one), 
'las  confounded  it  with  the  Atlantis  of  Bacon ;  concluding,  per- 


212  POPE. 


haps,   according  to  the   opinion   then   prevailing   in  Paris,   that 
"  philosophy"  was  a  fashionable  study  with  the  belles  of  London. 


TROUBLES  FROM  BAD  AUTHORS. 

(From  the  Epistle  to  Dr.  Arbuthnot.) 

Shut,  shut  the  door,  good  John  !   fatigued  I  said  : 
Tie  up  the  knocker,  say  I'm  sick,  I'm  dead. 
The  dog-star  rages  !  nay,  't  is  past  a  doubt. 
All  Bedlam,  or  Parnassus,  is  let  out: 
Fire  in  each  eye,  and  papers  in  each  hand. 
They  rave,  recite,  and  madden  round  the  land. 

What  walls  can  guard  me,  or  what  shades  can  hide  ? 
They  pierce  my  thickets,  through  my  grot  they  glide. 
By  land,  by  water,  they  renew  the  charge ; 
They  stop  the  chariot,  and  they  board  the  barge. 
No  place  is  sacred,  not  the  church  is  free, 
Ev^n  Sujiday  shines  7io  Sabbath  day  to  me : 
Then  from  the  mint  walks  forth  the  man  of  rhyme, 
Happy  !  to  catch  me— just  at  dinner  time. 

Is  there  a  parson,  much  be)7ius'd  in  beer, 
A  maudlin  poetess,  a  rhyming  peer, 
A  clerk,  foredoom'd  his  father's  soul  to  cross. 
Who  pens  a  stanza,  when  he  should  engross  ? 
Is  there,  who,  lock'd  from  ink  and  paper,  scrawls 
With  desperate  charcoal  round  his  darken'd  wails  ? 
All  fly  to  Twit'nam,  and  in  humble  strain 
Apply  to  me,  to  keep  them  mad  or  vain. 
Arthur,  whose  giddy  son  neglects  the  laws. 
Imputes  to  me  and  my  damn'd  works  the  cause  : 
Poor  Cornus  sees  his  frantic  wife  elope. 
And  curses  wit,  and  poetry,  and  Pope. 

Friend  to  my  life  !  (which  did  you  not  prolong. 
The  world  had  wanted  many  an  idle  song). 
What  drop  or  nostrum  can  this  plague  remove  .'' 
Or  which  must  end  me,  a  fool's  wrath  or  love  ? 
A  dire  dilemma  !  either  way  I  'm  sped ; 
If  foes  they  write,  if  friends,  they  read  me  dead. 
Seiz'd  and  ty'd  down  to  judge,  how  wretched  I  ! 
Who  can't  be  silent,  and  who  will  not  lie  : 
To  laugh,  were  want  of  goodness  and  of  grace  ; 
And  to  be  grave,  exceeds  all  power  of  face. 


POPE.  213 

I  sit  with  sad  civility  '  I  read 

With  honest  anguish,  and  an  aching  head  ; 

And  drop  at  last,  but  in  unwilling  ears, 

This  saving  counsel,  "  Keep  your  piece  nine  years." 

"  Nine  years  !"  cries  he,  who,  high  in  Drury  Lane, 

LuWd  by  soft  zephyrs  through  the  broken  pane. 

Rhymes  e'er  he  wakes,  and  prints  before  term  ends, 

Oblig'd  by  hunger,  and  request  of  friends  : 

"  The  piece,  you  think,  is  incorrect  ?     Why  take  it ; 

I'm  all  submission  ;  what  you'd  have  it,  make  it." 

Three  things  another's  modest  wishes  bound, 
My  friendship,  and  a  prologue,  and  ten  pound. 

Pitholeon  sends  to  me  :  "  You  know  his  grace  ; 
I  want  a  patron  :  ask  him  for  a  place." 
Pitholeon  libell'd  me — "  But  here's  a  letter 
Informs  you,  sir,  't  was  when  he  knew  no  better. 
Dare  you  refuse  him  .'     Curll  invites  to  dine, 
He'll  write  a  journal,  or  he'll  turn  divine." 

Bless  me  !  a  packet. — "  'T  is  a  stranger  sues, 
A  virgin  tragedy,  an  orphan  muse." 
If  I  dislike  it,  '■'■furies,  death,  and  rage .'" 
If  I  approve,  "  Commend  it  to  the  stage." 
There  (thank  my  stars),  my  whole  commission  ends. 
The  players  and  I  are  luckily,  no  friends. 
Fir'd  that  the  house  reject  him,  "  'Sdeath  !  I'll  print  it. 
And  shame  the  fools — Your  interest,  sir,  with  Lintot." 
"  Lintot,  dull  rogue  !  will  think  your  price  too  much  :" 
",Not,  sir,  if  you  revise  it,  and  retouch." 
All  my  demurs  but  double  his  attacks  : 
At  last  he  whispers,  "  Do  ;  and  we  go  snacks." 
Glad  of  a  quarrel,  straight  I  clap  the  door  ; 
"  Sir,  let  me  see  your  works,  and  you  no  more." 


7  Then  from  the  Mint  walks  forth  the  man  of  rhyme, 
Happy  to  catch  me,  just  at  dinner-time. 

The  precincts  of  the  Mint,  in  those  days,  included  a  jail  for 
debtors.  It  was  shabby  of  the  poor  devils  of  authors  to  take 
advantage  of  the  poet's  dinner-hour  ;  but  was  it  quite  magnani- 
mous in  the  poet  to  say  so  ?  If  lus  father  had  not  left  him  an 
independence,  he  might  have  found  even  himself  hard  pushed 
sometimes  for  a  meal.  Pope  was  a  little  too  fond  of  taking  his 
pecuniary  advantages  for  merits.  He  did  not  see  (so  blind 
respecting  themselves  are  the  acutest  satirists)  that  this  inability 


214  POPE. 

to  forego  a  false  ground  of  superiority  originated  in  an  instinct 
of  weakness. 

8  Curll  invites  to  rfmc— Curll  was  the  chief  scandalous  bookseller 
of  that  time. 


CHARACTERS  AND  RULING  PASSIONS. 


CHARACTER  OF  THE  DUKE  OF  WHARTON. 

Manners  with  fortunes,  humors  turn  with  climes, 
Tenets  with  books,  and  principles  with  times. 

Search  then  the  Ruling  Passion  :  there,  alone. 
The  wild  are  constant,  and  the  cunning  known  ; 
The  fool  consistent,  and  the  false  sincere  ; 
Priests,  princes,  women,  no  dissemblers  here. 
This  clue  once  found,  unravels  all  the  rest. 
The  prospect  clears,  and  Wharton  stands  confest 
Wharton  the  scorn  and  wonder  of  our  days, 
Whose  ruling  passion  was  the  lust  of  praise  : 
Born  with  whate'er  could  win  it  from  the  wise. 
Women  and  fools  must  like  him,  or  he  dies: 
Though  wondering  senates  hung  on  all  he  spoke. 
The  club  must  hail  him  master  of  the  joke. 
Shall  parts  so  various  aim  at  nothing  new  ? 
He'll  shine  a  TuUy  and  a  Wilmot  too. 
Then  turns  repentant,  and  his  God  adores. 
With  the  same  spirit  that  he  drinks  and  whores  :^ 
Enough  if  all  around  him  but  admire. 
And  now  the  punk  applaud,  and  now  the  friar. 
Thus  with  each  gift  of  nature  and  of  art 
And  wanting  nothing  but  an  honest  heart; 
Grown  all  to  all,  from  no  one  vice  exempt ; 
Jlnd  most  contemptible,  to  shun  contempt ; 
His  passion  still  to  covet  general  praise  ; 
His  life,  to  forfeit  it  a  thousand  ways  ; 
A  constant  bounty,  which  no  friend  has  made ; 
An  angel  tongue,  which  no  man  can  persuade  ; 
A  fool,  with  more  of  wit  than  half  mankind  ; 
Too  rash  for  thought,  for  action  too  refin'd 
A  tyrant  to  the  wife  his  heart  approves  ; 
A  rebel  to  th«  very  king  he  loves  ; 


POPE.  215 

He  dies,  sad  outcast  of  each  church  and  state, 
And,  harder  still !  flagitious,  yet  not  great. 
Ask  you  why  Wharton  broke  through  every  rule  ? 
'Twas  all  for  fear  that  knaves  should  call  him  fool."^ 

'  Then  turns  repentant,  and  his  God  adores. 
With  the  same  spirit  that  he  drinks  and  whores. 

The  reader  must  bear  in  mind  that  all  which   is  considered 

coarse  lantruage  now,  was  not  so  considered  in  Pope's  time  ;  and 

that  words,  which  cannot  any  longer  be  read  out  loud  in  mixed 

company,  may  still  have  the  benefit  of  that  recollection,  and  be 

silently  endured. 

"  Ask  you  why  TVhartoji  broke  through  every  rule  1 
'Twas  all  for  fear  that  k?iaves  should  call  him  fool. 

Perhaps,  if  it  were  required  to  select  from  all  Pope's  writings 
the  passage  most  calculated  to  have  a  practical  effect  on  readers 
in  want  of  it,  it  would  be  this  couplet.  The  address  of  it  is  ex- 
quisite. The  obvious  conclusion  is,  that  it  is  better  to  be  thought 
a  fool  by  a  knave  than  by  a  man  of  genius. 


CHARACTER  OF  ADDISON. 

A  man's  true  merit  is  not  hard  to  find  ; 
But  each  jnan's  secret  standard  in  his  mind 
{That  casting-weight  pride  adds  to  emptiness) 
TJiis,  who  can  gratify  ?  for  who  can  guess  ?" 
The  bard  whom  pilfcr'd  pastorals  renown. 
Who  turns  a  Persian  tale  for  half-a-crown  ;i2 
He,  who  still  wanting,  though  he  lives  on  theft. 
Steals  much,  spends  little,  yet  has  nothing  left; 
And  he  who  now  to  sense,  now  nonsense  leaning. 
Means  not,  but  blunders  round  about  a  meaning  ; 
And  he  whose  fustian's  so  sublimely  bad. 
It  is  not  poetry,  hxit prose  run  mad ; 
All  these  my  modest  satire  bade  translate. 
And  own'd  that  nine  such  poets  made  a  Tate. 
How  did  they  fume,  and  stamp,  and  roar,  and  chafe, 
Aud  swear  not  Addison  himself  was  safe. 

Peace  to  all  such  !     But  were  there  one  whose  fires 
True  genius  kindles,  and  fair  fame  inspires ; 


216  POPE. 

Blest  with  each  talent  and  each  art  to  please, 
And  born  to  write,  converse,  and  live  with  ease; 
Should  such  a  man,  too  fond  to  rule  alone, 
Bear  like  the  Turk  no  brother  near  the  throne  ; 
View  him  with  scornful,  yet  with  jealous  eyes. 
And  hate  for  arts  that  caus'd  himself  to  rise  ; 
JDamn  with  faint  praise,  assent  with  civil  leer. 
And  without  sneering  teach  the  rest  to  sneer  ; 
Willing  to  tvotind  and  yet  afraid  to  strike. 
Just  hint  a  fault  and  hesitate  dislike  ; 
Alike  reserv'd  to  blame,  or  to  commend, 
A  timorous  foe  and  a  suspicious  friend  ; 
Dreading  e'en  fools,  by  flatterers  besieg'd, 
And  so  obliging,  that  he  ne'er  obliged  ; 
Like  Cato,  give  his  little  senate  laws. 
And  sit  attentive  to  his  own  applause; 
While  wits  and  tem.plars  every  sentence  raise, 

And  wonder  with  a  foolish  face  of  praise 

Who  but  must  laugh,  if  such  a  man  there  be  ? 
Who  would  not  weep,  if  Atticiis  were  he  ?'^ 

I'  — Each  man's  secret  standard  in  his  mind 
{That  casting- weight  pride  adds  to  emptiness) 
This,  who  can  gratify  1  for  who  can  guess  ? 

Exquisite  discernment,  as  exquisitely  expressed.  This  is  the 
whole  secret  of  arrogance,  and  (in  ninety-nine  cases  out  of  a  hun- 
dred) of  ordinary  suUenness  and  exaction.  The  standard  is  in, 
visible,  and  no  arbiter  is  allowed. 

"  The  bard  whom  pilfer' d  pastorals  renown. 
Who  turns  a  Persian  tale  for  half-a-crown. 

This  was  Ambrose  Philips,  a  man  of  genius,  whose  half-jest. 

ing,   half-serious  poems  in   short  verses  were  of  a  delicacy  not 

sufficiently  appreciated  ;   and  whose  mistake  in  pastoral  writing 

was,   at  all  events,  not  so  bad  as  Pope's,  who  never  foi'gave  the 

superiority  awarded  to  him  in  that  direction  by  Steele  and  others. 

What  is  meant  by  the  pastorals  being  "  pilfered,"  I  forget ;  if 

that  they  were  imitated  from  Spenser  and  others,  Pope's  may  be 

said  to   have   been   all   pilfered   from   classical    common-places. 

The  accusation  of  the  half-crown  is,  of  course,  not  true  ;  and  if  it 

were,  would  be  no  disgrace  but  to  the  accuser  and  the  bookseller. 

Suppose  Philips  had  described  Pope  as  the  man 

Who  turns  a  page  of  Greek  for  eighteen-pence ! 


POPE.  217 

The  tales  here  alluded  to  were  the  delightful  Perdan  Tales, 
translated  from  the  French  of  Petit  de  la  Croix.  They  are  of 
genuine  Eastern  origin,  and  worthy  brothers  of  the  enchanting 
Arabian  Nights. 

'3  TV/io  would  not  weep,  if  Mticus  were  he.—\i  is  well  known  and 
obvious  that  this  character  of  Atticus  was  meant  for  Addison.  A 
doubt  has  existed  whether  Pope  was  right  in  supposing  Addison 
to  have  been  jealous ;  and  perhaps  he  was  not :  but  the  coldness, 
reserve,  and  management,  in  the  disposition  of  the  lord  of  Button's 
Coffee-house,  not  unnaturally  gave  rise  to  the  suspicion  :  and  the 
exquisite  expression  of  the  language  in  which  it  is  conveyed  has 
all  the  eloquence  of  belief. 


CHARACTER  OF  THE  DUKE  OF  BUCKINGHAM. 

Behold  what  blessings  wealth  to  life  can  lend, 

And  see  what  comfort  it  affords  our  end. 

In  the  worst  inn's  worst  room,  with  mat  half  liung,i-< 

The  floor  of  plaster,  and  the  walls  of  dung, 

On  once  a  flock-bed,  but  repair'd  with  straw. 

With  tape-ty'd  curtains  never  meant  to  draw. 

The  George  and  Garter  dangling  from  that  bed 

Where  tawdry  yellow  strove  with  dirty  red. 

Great  Villiers  lies — alas  !  how  chang'd  from  him, 

That  life  of  pleasure,  and  that  soul  of  whim ! 

Gallant  and  gay,  in  Cliveden's  proud  alcove. 

The  bower  of  wanton  Shrewsbury  and  love  ; 

Or  just  as  gay  at  council,  in  a  ring 

Of  mimick'd  statesmen,  and  their  merry  king. 

No  wit  to  flatter,  left  of  all  his  store  ! 

No  fool  to  laugh  at,  which  he  valued  more. 

There,  victor  of  his  health,  of  fortune,  friends. 

And  fame,  this  lord  of  useless  thousands  ends, 

"  In  the  worst  inn's  worst  room,  S,-c.—h  is  a  pity  that  Pope  wrote 
this  character  of  Buckingham  after  Dryden's ;  for,  thouo-h  cele- 
brated and  worth  repeating,  it  is  very  inferior,  and,  in  the  details, 
of  very  questionable  truth.  In  fact,  the  superlative  way  of  talk, 
ing  throughout  it  (the  "  worst  inn's  worst  room,"  the  introduction 

11 


218  POPE. 

of  the  "  George  and  Garter,"  &c.)  is  in  a  manifest  spirit  of  exag- 
geration, and  defeats  the  writer's  object.  A  gentleman  of  the 
Fairfax  connexion,  who  was  a  retainer  of  the  Dulce's,  and  wrote 
a  memoir  of  him,  says  that  he  died  in  his  own  house. 


CHARACTER  OF  THE  DUCHESS  OF  MARLBOROUGH. 

But  what  are  these  to  great  Atossa's  mind  ?^° 
Scarce  once  herself,  by  turns  all  womankind  ! 
Who  with  herself,  or  others,  from  her  birth 
Finds  all  her  life  one  warfare  upon  earth  ; 
Shines  in  exposing  knaves,  and  painting  fools. 
Yet  is,  whate'er  she  hates  and  ridicules  : 
No  thought  advances,  but  her  eddy  brain 
Whisks  it  about,  and  down  it  goes  again. 
Full  sixty  years  the  world  has  been  her  trade ; 
The  wisest  fool  much  time  has  ever  made  : 
From  loveless  youth  to  unrespected  age, 
No  passion  gratify'd,  except  her  rage: 
So  much  the  fury  still  outran  the  wit, 
The  pleasure  miss'd  her,  and  the  scandal  hit. 
Who  breaks  with  her,  provokes  revenge  from  hell. 
But  he's  a  bolder  man  who  dares  be  well. 
Her  every  turn  with  violence  pursued, 
Nor  more  a  storm  her  hate  than  gratitude  : 
To  that  each  passion  turns,  or  soon,  or  late  ; 
Love,  if  it  makes  her  yield,  must  make  her  hate. 
Superiors  ?  death  !  and  equals  .'  what  a  curse  ! 
But  an  inferior  not  dependant .'  worse. 
Offend  her,  and  she  knows  not  to  forgive  ; 
Oblige  her,  and  she'll  hate  you  while  you  live  : 
But  die,  and  she'll  adore  you — then  the  bust 
And  temple  rise — then  fall  again  to  dust. 
Last  night  her  lord  was  all  that's  good  and  great ; 
A  knave  this  morning,  and  his  will  a  cheat. 
Strange  !  by  the  means  defeated  of  the  ends. 
By  spirit  robb'd  of  power,  by  warmth  of  friends. 
By  wealth  of  followers  !  without  one  distress 
Sick  of  herself,  through  very  selfishness  ! 
Atossa,  curs'd  with  every  granted  prayer; 
Childless  with  all  her  children,  wants  an  heir. 
To  heirs  unknown  descends  th'  unguarded  store. 
Or  wanders,  heaven-directed,  to  the  poor. 


POPE.  219 

'5  Great  Atossa's  mind.— The  Duchess  of  Marlborough,  widow  of 
the  great  Duke, — famous  for  her  ambition  and  arbitrary  temper, 
and  the  ascendency  which  she  lost  over  Queen  Anne. 


CHARACTER  OF  THE  DUKE  OF  CHANDOS, 

A?JD   DESCRIPTION    OF   HIS    VILLA. 

At  Timon's  villa  let  us  pass  a  day  ;'6 
Where  all  cry  out,  "  What  sums  are  thrown  away  !" 
So  proud,  so  grand  ;  of  that  stupendous  air. 
Soft  and  agreeable  come  never  there. 
Greatness  with  Timon  dwells,  in  such  a  draught 
As  brings  all  Brobdignag  before  your  thought. 
To  compass  this,  his  building  is  a  town. 
His  pond  an  ocean,  his  parterre  a  down  . 
Who  but  must  laugh,  the  master  when  he  sees, 
Jl puny  insect,  shivering  at  a  breeze.' 
Lo,  what  huge  heaps  of  littleness  around! 
The  whole  a  labord  quarry  above  ground. 
Two  Cupids  squirt  before  :  a  lake  behind 
Improves  the  keenness  of  the  northern  wind. 
His  gardens  next  your  admiration  call : 
On  every  side  you  look,  behold  the  wall .' 
No  pleasing  intricacies  intervene, 
No  artful  wildness  to  perplex  the  scene ; 
Grove  nods  at  grove,  each  alley  has  a  brother. 
And  half  the  platform  just  reflects  the  other 
The  suffering  eye  inverted  nature  sees, 
Trees  cut  to  statues,  statues  thick  as  trees ; 
With  here  a  fouritain  never  to  be  plaxfd  ; 
And  there  a  summer-house  that  knows  no  shade  ; 
Here  Amphitrite  sails  through  myrtle  bowers. 
There  gladiators  fight  or  die  in  flowers; 
Unwater'd  see  the  drooping  sea-horse  mourn, 
And  swallows  roost  in  Nilus'  dusty  urn. 
My  lord  advances  with  majestic  mien, 
Smit  with  the  mighty  pleasure  to  be  seen: 
But  soft — by  regular  approach — not  yet — 
First  through  the  length  of  yon  hot  terrace  sweat ; 
And  when  up  ten  steep  slopes  you  've  dragg'd  your  thighs. 
Just  at  his  study-door  he'll  bless  your  eyes. 


220  POPE. 

His  study  !  with  what  authors  is  it  stor'd  ? 
In  books,  not  authors,  curious  is  my  lord  : 
To  all  their  dated  backs  he  turns  you  round  ; 
These  Aldus  printed,  those  Du  Sueil  has  bound. 
Lo,  some  are  vellum,  and  ihe  rest  as  good 
For  all  his  lordship  knows,  but  they  are  wood  ! 
For  Locke  or  Milton  't  is  in  vain  to  look; 
These  shelves  admit  not  any  modern  book. 

And  now  the  chapel's  silver  bell  you  hear. 
That  summons  you  to  all  the  pride  of  prayer  : 
Light  quirks  of  music,  broken  and  uneven, 
Make  the  soul  dance  upon  a  jig  to  heaven. 
On  painted  ceilings  you  devoutly  stare. 
Where  sprawl  the  saints  of  Verrio  or  Laguerre, 
Or  gilded  clouds  in  fair  expansion  lie, 
And  bring  all  paradise  before  your  eye. 
To  rest,  the  cushion  and  soft  dean  invite. 
Who  never  mentions  hell  to  ears  polite. 

But  hark  !  the  chiming  clocks  to  dinner  call ; 
A  hundred  footsteps  scrape  the  marble  hall : 
The  rich  buffet  well-colored  serpents  grace. 
And  gaping  Tritons  spew  to  wash  your  face. 
Is  this  a  dinner  .'  this  a  genial  room  .' 
JVo,  't  is  a  temple,  and  a  hecatomb. 
A  solemn  sacrifice  performed  in  state. 
You  drink  by  measure,  and  to  minutes  eat. 
So  quick  retires  each  flying  course,  you'd  swear 
Sancho's  dread  doctor  and  his  wand  were  there. 
Between  each  act  the  trembling  salvers  ring, 
From  soup  to  sweet-wine,  and  God  bless  the  King. 
In  plenty  starving,  tantaliz'd  in  state. 
And  complaisantly  help'd  to  all  I  hate. 
Treated,  caress'd,  and  tir'd,  I  take  my  leave 
Sick  of  his  civil  pride  from  morn  to  eve  ; 
I  curse  such  lavish  cost,  and  little  skill, 
And  swear  no  day  was  ever  pass'd  so  ill. 

Yet  hence  the  poor  are  cloth'd,  the  hungry  fed; 
Health  to  himself,  and  to  his  infants  bread 
The  laborer  bears.     What  his  hard  heart  denies. 
His  charitable  vanity  supplies. 

Another  age  shall  see  the  golden  ear 
Imbrown  the  slope,  and  nod  on  the  parterre, 
Deep  harvests  bury  all  his  pride  has  plann'd, 
And  laughing  Ceres  re-assume  the  land, 

'•  *'AtTimon'svillaletuspassaday.—T]\e  character  of  Timon 


POPE.  221 

(though  Pope  denied  the  application)  was  universally  thought, 
and  still  is,  to  have  been  intended  for  that  of  James  Brydges, 
First  Duke  of  Chandos,  whose  princely  buildings  at  Canons,  and 
equally  princely  style  of  living,  with  his  chapel,  his  choir,  and 
Handel  for  his  composer, — rendered  the  satire  applicable  to  him 
alone.  The  prophecy  at  the  conclusion  was  singularly  borne 
out  by  the  event ;  and  the  pedestrian  who  now  visits  Edge- 
ware  seldom  suspects  that  he  is  on  ground  so  famous.  People 
in  the  neighborhood  are  still  said  to  talk  of  the  "  Grand  Duke." 
His  locks  and  hinges  were  of  silver  and  gold. 


CHARACTER  OF  NARCISSA. 

Narcissa's  nature,  tolerably  mild. 

To  make  a  wash  would  hardly  stew  a  child ;" 

Has  e'en  been  prov'd  to  grant  a  lover's  prayer, 

And  paid  a  tradesman  once  to  make  him  stare  ; 

Gave  alms  at  Easter,  in  a  Christian  trim ; 

And  made  a  widow  happy,  lor  a  whim. 

Why  then  declare  good  nature  is  her  scorn. 

When  'tis  by  that  alone  she  can  be  borne  ? 

Why  pique  all  mortals,  yet  affect  a  name .' 

A  fool  to  pleasure,  yet  a  slave  to  fame  : 

JVow  deep  in  Taylor  and  the  Book  of  Martyrs  ; 

JVow  drinking  citron  with  his  Grace  and  Chartres  ; 

Now  conscience  chills  her,  and  now  passion  burns. 

And  atheism  and  religion  take  their  turns; 

A  very  Heathen  in  tlie  carnal  part. 

Yet  still  a  sad  good  Christian  at  her  heart. 

"  A''arcissa's  nature,  tolerably  mild, 

To  make  a  wash  would  hardly  stew  a  child. 

This  is  very  ludicrous  and  outrageous.  Can  this  Narcissa 
have  been  intended  lor  Mrs.  Oldfield  the  actress,  who  is  under- 
stood, with  great  probability,  to  have  been  the  Narcissa  spoken 
of  in  a  passage  extracted  furtlier  on?  If  so,  she  does  not  appear 
to  have  deserved  the  character, — at  least  not  the  worst  part  of  it. 
The  widow,  whom  she  is  described  as  making  happy  "  for  a 
whim,"   bore  the  most    affectionate    testimony  to  her  generous 


222  POPE. 

qualities ;  and  she  gave  a  pension  to  Savage.  See  her  "  Life," 
by  Maynwaring ;  which,  tliough  a  catchpenny  publication,  easily 
shows  what  we  are  to  believe  in  it,  and  what  not. 


CHARACTER  OF  CHLOE. 

"  Yet  Chloe,  sure,  was  form'd  without  a  spot." — " 
Nature  in  her  then  err'd  not,  but  forgot. 
"  With  every  pleasing,  every  prudent  part, 
Say,  what  can  Chloe  want?" — She  wants  a  heart. 
She  speaks,  behaves,  and  acts  just  as  she  ought ; 
But  never,  never  reach'd  one  generous  thought. 
Virtue  she  finds  too  painful  an  endeavor — 
Content  to  dwell  in  decencies  for  ever 
So  very  reasonable,  so  unmov'd. 
As  never  yet  to  love  or  to  be  lov'd. 
She,  while  her  lover  pants  upon  her  breast, 
Can  mark  the  figures  on  an  Indian  chest ; 
And  when  she  sees  her  friend  in  deep  despair, 
Observes  how  much  a  chintz  exceeds  mohair. 
Forbid  it,  heaven  !  a  favor  or  a  debt 
She  e'er  should  cancel — but  she  may  forget. 
Safe  is  your  secret  still  in  Chloe's  ear  ; 
But  none  of  Chloe's  shall  you  ever  hear. 
Of  all  her  dears  she  never  slandered  one. 
But  cares  not  if  a  thousand  are  undone. 
Would  Chloe  know  if  you're  alive  or  dead  ? 
She  bids  her  footman  put  it  in  her  head. 
Chloe  is  prudent — (would  you  too  be  wise  .') 
Then  never  break  your  heart  when  Chloe  dies. 

'®  Yet  Chloe,  sure,  was  formed  without  a  spot. — Chloe  is  thought  to 
have  been  Lady  Suffolk,  the  supposed  mistress  of  George  the 
Second.  She  had  offended  Pope  by  not  doing  something  for 
Swift,  which,  according  to  the  Dean  and  his  friends,  she  had  led 
him  to  believe  she  would.  But  Swift  was  full  of  fancies  ;  and 
Lady  Suffolk,  by  consent  of  all  that  were  in  habits  of  intimacy 
with  her,  was  a  most  amiable  as  well  as  even-tempered  woman. 


POPE.  223 


THE  RULING  PASSION. 

In  this  one  passion  man  can  strength  enjoy, 
As  fits  give  vigor  just  when  they  destroy. 
Time,  that  on  all  things  lays  his  lenient  hand. 
Yet  tames  not  this  ;  it  sticks  to  our  last  sand. 
Consistent  in  our  follies  and  our  sins. 
Here  honest  nature  ends  as  she  begins. 
Old  politicians  chew  on  wisdom  past. 
And  totter  on  in  business  to  the  last ; 
As  weak,  as  earnest,  and  as  gravely  out. 
As  sober  Lanesb'row  dancing  in  the  gout. 

Behold  a  reverend  sire,  whom  want  of  grace 
Has  made  the  father  of  a  nameless  race, 
Shov'd  from  the  wall,  perhaps,  or  rudely  press'd 
By  his  own  son,  that  passes  by  unbless'd ; 
Still  to  his  wench  he  crawls  on  knocking  knees. 
And  envies  every  sparrow  that  he  sees. 

A  salmon's  belly,  Helluo,  was  thy  fate  ; 
The  doctor  call'd,  declares  all  help  too  late . 
"  Mercy  !"  cries  Helluo,  "  mercy  on  my  soul ! 
Is  there  no  help  .'—alas  !— then  bring  the  jowl." 

The  frugal  crone,  whom  praying  priests  attend. 
Still  strives  to  save  the  hallow'd  taper's  end. 
Collects  her  breath,  as  ebbing  life  retires. 
For  one  puff  more,  and  in  that  puff  expires. 
"  Odious  !  in  woollen  !  'twould  a  saint  provoke" 
(Were  the  last  words  that  poor  Narcissa  spoke), 
"  No,  let  a  charming  chintz,  and  Brussels  lace 
Wrap  my  cold  limbs,  and  shade  my  lifeless  face  : 
One  would  not,  sure,  be  frightful  when  one's  dead— 
And,  Betty,  give  this  cheek  a  little  red."" 

The  courtier  smooth,  who  forty  years  had  shin'd 
An  humble  servant  to  all  human  kind. 
Just  brought  out  this,  when  scarce  his  tongue  could  stir  : 
"  If— where  I'm  going — I  could  serve  you,  sir  .'" 

"  I  give  and  I  devise"  (old  Euclio  said. 
And  sigh'd)  "  my  lands  and  tenements  to  Ned." 
"  Your  money,  sir  ?"     "  My  money,  sir  !  what,  all .' 
Why,  if  I  must— (then  wept)— I  give  it  Paul." 
"  The  manor,  sir  .'"     "  The  manor !  hold  !"  he  cried  ; 
"  Not  that, — I  cannot  part  with  that  "—and  died. 

"  And,  Betty,  give  this  check  a  little  red— The    "  little    red  "    is  a 


224  POPE. 

poetical  addition ;  but  it  really  appears,  from  the  "  Life"  above 
mentioned,  tiiat  Mrs.  Oldfield  was  handsomely  dressed  in  her 
coffin,  by  lier  own  direction.  The  charmer  of  the  stage  could  not 
bear  to  fancy  herself  in  mortal  attire. 


SWIFT.  225 


SWIFT. 

BORN,    1667 DIED,    1745. 


For  the  qualities  of  sheer  wit  and  humor,  Swift  had  no  superior, 
ancient  or  modern.  He  had  not  the  poetry  of  Aristophanes,  or 
the  animal  spirits  of  Rabelais ;  he  was  not  so  incessantly  witty 
as  Butler ;  nor  did  he  possess  the  delicacy  of  Addison,  or  the  good 
nature  of  Steele  or  Fielding,  or  the  pathos  and  depth  of  Sterne  ; 
but  his  wit  was  perfect,  as  such  ;  a  sheer  meeting  of  the  extremes 
of  difference  and  likeness ;  and  his  knowledge  of  character  was 
unbounded.  He  knew  the  humor  of  great  and  small,  from  the 
king  down  to  the  cook-maid.  Unfortunately,  he  was  not  a  healthy 
man ;  his  entrance  into  the  church  put  him  into  a  false  position ; 
mysterious  circumstances  in  his  personal  history  conspired  with 
worldly  disappointment  to  aggravate  it ;  and  that  hypochondriacal 
insight  into  things,  which  miffht  have  taught  him  a  doubt  of  his 
conclusions  and  the  wisdom  of  patience,  ended  in  making  him  the 
victim  of  a  diseased  blood  and  angry  passions.  Probably  there 
was  something  morbid  even  in  his  excessive  coarseness.  Most 
of  his  contemporaries  were  coarse,  but  not  so  outrageously  as  he. 
When  Swift,  however,  was  at  his  best,  who  was  so  lively,  so 
entertaining,  so  original  ?  He  has  been  said  to  be  indebted  to 
this  and  that  classic,  and  this  and  that  Frenchman  ; — to  Lucian, 
to  Rabelais,  and  to  Cyrano  de  Bergerac ;  but  though  he  was  ac- 
quainted with  all  these  writers,  their  thoughts  had  been  evidently 
thought  by  himself;  their  ([uaint  fancies  of  things  had  passed 
through  his  own  mind  ;  and  they  ended  in  results  quite  masterly, 
and  his  own.     A  great  fanciful  wit  like  his  wanted  no  helps  to 

11* 


226  SWIFT. 


the  discovery  of  Brobdignag  and  Laputa.     The  Big  and  Little 
Endians  were  close  to  him  every  day,  at  court  and  at  church. 

Swift  took  his  principal  measure  from  Butler,  and  he  emulated 
his  rhymes  ;  yet  his  manner  is  his  own.  There  is  a  mixture  of 
care  and  precision  in  it,  announcing  at  once  power  and  fastidious- 
ness, like  Mr.  Dean  going  with  his  verger  before  him,  in  flowing 
gown  and  five  times  washed  face,  with  his  nails  pared  to  the 
quick.  His  long  irregular  prose  verses  with  rhymes  at  the  end, 
are  an  invention  of  his  own  ;  and  a  similar  mixture  is  discernible 
even  in  those,  not  excepting  a  feeling  of  musical  proportion. 
Swift  had  more  music  in  him  than  he  loved  to  let  "  fiddlers"  sup- 
pose ;  and  throughout  all  his  writings  there  may  be  observed  a 
jealous  sense  of  power,  modifying  the  most  familiar  of  his  im- 
pulses. 

After  all,  however,  Swift's  verse,  compared  with  Pope's  or  with 
Butler's,  is  but  a  kind  of  smart  prose.  It  wants  their  pregnancy 
of  expression.  His  greatest  works  are  Gulliver's  Travels,  and 
the  Tale  of  a  Tub. 


THE  GRAND  QUESTION  DEBATED.i 
WHETHER  Hamilton's  bawn  should  be  turned  into  a  barrack 

OR    A    MALT-HOUSE,    1729. 

Thus  spoke  to  my  lady  the  knight  full  of  care  : 
"  Let  me  have  your  advice  in  a  weighty  affair. 
This  Hamilton's  bawn,  whilst  it  sticks  on  my  hand, 
I  lose  by  the  house  what  I  get  by  the  land, 
But  how  to  dispose  of  it  to  the  best  bidder, 
For  a  barrack  or  malt-house,  we  now  must  consider. 
First,  let  me  suppose  I  make  it  a  malt-house  : 
Here  I  have  computed  the  profit  will  fall  f  us  : 
There's  nine  hundred  pounds  for  labor  and  grain  ; 
I  increase  it  to  twelve,  so  three  hundred  remain  ; 
A  handsome  addition  to  wine  and  good  cheer, 
Three  dishes  a  day,  and  three  hogsheads  a  year. 
With  a  dozen  large  vessels  my  vaults  shall  be  stor'd  ; 
No  little  scrub  joint  shall  come  on  my  boai'd  ; 
And  you  and  the  Dean  no  more  shall  combine 
To  stint  me  at  night  to  one  bottle  of  wine  ; 


SWIFT.  227 


Nor  shall  I,  for  his  humor,  permit  you  to  purloin 
A  stone  and  a  quarter  of  beef  from  my  surloin. 
If  I  make  it  a  barrack,  the  crown  is  my  tenant; 
My  dear,  I  have  ponder'd  again  and  again  on  't : 
In  poundage  and  drawbacks  I  lose  half  my  rent ; 
Whatever  they  give  me,  I  must  be  content. 
Or  join  with  the  court  in  every  debate  ; 
And  rather  than  that,  I  would  lose  my  estate." 

Thus  ended  the  knight:  thus  began  his  meek  wife  : 
"  It  must,  and  it  shall  be  a  barrack,  my  life. 
I'm  grown  a  mere  mopus  ;  no  company  comes. 
But  a  rabble  of  tenants,  and  rusty  dull  rums.* 
With  parsons  what  lady  can  keep  herself  clean ; 
I'm  all  over  daub'd  when  I  sit  by  the  Dean. 
But  if  you  will  give  us  a  barrack,  my  dear. 
The  captain,  I'm  sure,  will  always  come  here  : 
I  then  shall  not  value  his  deanship  a  straw. 
For  the  captain,  I  %\-arrant,  will  keep  him  in  awe  ; 
Or  should  he  pretend  to  be  brisk  and  aletf. 
Will  tell  him  that  chaplains  should  not  be  so  pert ; 
That  men  of  his  coat  should  be  minding  their  prayers. 
And  not  among  ladies  to  give  themselves  airs." 
Thus  argued  my  lady,  but  argued  in  vain  ; 
The  knight  his  opinion  resolv'd  to  maintain. 

But  Hannah,  who  listcn'd  to  all  that  was  past, 
And  could  not  endure  so  vulgar  a  taste. 
As  soon  as  her  ladyship  call'd  to  be  drest, 
Cry'd,  "  Madam,  why  surely  my  master's  possest. 
Sir  Arthur  the  maltster  !  how  fine  it  will  sound  ! 
I'd  rather  the  baum  were  sunk  under  the  ground. 
But,  madam,  I  guess'd  there  would  never  come  good. 
When  I  saw  him  so  often  with  Darby  and  Wood.f 
And  now  my  dream's  out ;  for  I  was  a-dream'd 
That  I  saw  a  huge  rat — O  dear,  how  I  scream'd! 
And  after,  methought,  I  had  lost  my  new  shoes  ; 
And  Molly,  she  said  I  should  hear  some  ill-news. 

"  Dear  madam,  had  you  but  the  spirit  to  tease. 
You  might  have  a  barrack  whenever  you  please  : 
And,  madam,  I  always  believed  you  so  stout, 
That  for  twenty  denials  you  would  not  give  out. 
If  I  had  a  husband  like  him,  I  purtest. 
Till  he  gave  me  my  will,  I  would  give  him  no  rest ; 

*  A  cant  word  in  Ireland  for  poor  country  clergymen, 
t  Two  of  Sir  Arthur's  managers. 


22S  SWIFT. 

And  rather  than  come  in  the  same  pair  of  sheets 

With  such  a  cross  man,  I  would  lie  in  the  streets. 

But,  madam,  I  beg  you,  contrive  and  invent, 

And  worry  him  out,  till  he  gives  his  consent. 

Dear  madam,  whene'er  of  a  barrack  I  think, 

An  I  were  to  be  hang'd,  I  can't  sleep  a  wink  : 

For  if  a  new  crotchet  comes  into  my  brain, 

I  can't  get  it  out,  though  I'd  never  so  fain. 

I  fancy  already  a  barrack  contriv'd 

At  Hamilton's  bawn,  and  the  troop  is  arriv'd  ; 

Of  this  to  be  sure  Sir  Arthur  has  warning. 

And  waits  on  the  captain  betimes  the  next  morning. 

Now  see,  when  they  meet,  how  their  honors  behave  : 

'  JS^oble  captaiti,  your  servant,^ — '  Sir  Arthur,  your  slave  f 

'  You  honor  me  much  ' — '  The  honor  is  mine  ' 

'  'T  was  a  sad  rainy  night' — '  But  the  morning  is  fine.'' 

'  Pray  how  does  my  lady  T — '  My  wife's  at  your  service.' 

'  I  think  I  have  seen  her  picture  by  Jervas.' 

'  Good-morrow,  good  captain' — '  I'll  wait  on  you  down.' 

'  You  shu'n't  stir  a  foot.' — '  You'll  think  me  a  clowti.' 

'  For  all  the  world,  captain,  not  half  an  inch  farther.' 

'  You  must  be  obey'd  .'—Your  servant.  Sir  Arthur! 

My  hiimble  respects  to  my  lady  unknown.' 

^  I  hope  you  will  use  my  house  as  your  own.' " 

"  do  bring  me  my  smock,  and  leave  off  your  prate. 
Thou  hast  certainly  gotten  a  cup  in  thy  pate." 

"  Pray,  madam,  be  quiet ;  what  was  it  I  said  ? 
You  had  like  to  have  put  it  quite  out  of  my  head. 
Next  day,  to  be  sure,  the  captain  will  come. 
At  the  head  of  his  troop,  Vt'iih  trumpet  and  drum. 
JVow,  madam,  observe  hotv  he  marches  in  state  ; 
The  man  with  the  kettle-drum  enters  the  gate: 
Dub,  dub,  adub,  dub.      The  trumpeters  follow, 
Tantarum,  tantara  ;  while  all  the  boys  hollow. 
See  now  comes  the  captain  all  daub'd  with  gold  lace  : 
O  la  !  the  sweet  gentleman  .'   look  in  his  face  ; 
And  see  how  he  rides  like  a  lord  of  the  laud. 
With  the  fine  flaming  sword  that  he  holds  in  his  hand  ; 
And  his  horse,  the  dear  creter,  it  prances  and  rears, 
With  ribbons  in  knots  at  its  tail  and  its  ears: 
At  last  comes  the  troop,  by  the  word  of  command. 
Drawn  up  in  the  court  ;  when  the  captain  cries,  stand  ! 
Your  ladyship  lifts  up  the  sash  to  be  seen 
{For  sure  I  had  dizen'd  you  out  like  a  queen). 


SWIFT.  229 


The  captain,  to  show  he  is  proud  of  the  favor. 

Looks  lip  to  your  window,  and  cocks  up  his  beaver 

{His  beaver  is  cock'd,  pray,  madam,  mark  that ; 

For  a  captain  of  horse  never  takes  off  his  hat, 

Because  he  has  never  a  hand  that  is  idle : 

For  the  right  holds  the  sword,  and  the  left  holds  the  bridle)  ; 

Then  flourishes  thrice  his  sword  in  the  air, 

As  a  compliment  due  to  a  lady  so  fair  ; 

{How  I  tremble  to  think  of  the  blood  it  has  spilt  f) 

Then  he  lowers  down  the  point  and  kisses  the  hilt. 

Your  ladyship  smiles,  and  thus  you  begin : 

'  Pray,  captain,  be  pleas'd  to  alight  and  walk  in.' 

The  captain  salutes  you  with  congee  profound. 

And  your  ladyship  curtsies  half  way  to  the  ground. 

'  Kit,  run  to  your  master,  and  bid  him  come  to  us ; 
I'm  sure  he'll  be  proud  of  the  honour  you  do  us. 
And,  captain,  you'll  do  us  the  favor  to  stay. 
And  take  a  short  dinner  here  with  us  to-day ; 
You're  heartily  welcome  ;  but  as  for  good  cheer, 
You  come  in  the  very  worst  time  in  the  year ; 
If  I  had  expected  so  worthy  a  guest ' 


'  Lord,  madam  !  your  ladyship  sure  is  in  jest: 
You  banter  me,  madam  ;  the  kingdom  must  grant — ' 
'  You  officers,  captain,  are  so  complaisant!'" 

"  Hist,  hussy,  I  think  I  hear  somebody  coming  !" 
"  No,  madam  ;  'tis  only  Sir  Arthur  a-humming. 
To  shorten  my  tale  (for  I  hate  a  long  story), 
The  captain  at  dinner  appears  in  his  glory  ; 
The  Dean  and  the  doctor  have  humbled  their  pride, 
For  the  captain's  entreated  to  sit  by  your  side  ; 
And  because  he's  their  betters,  you  carve  for  him  first; 
The  parsons  for  envy  are  ready  to  burst. 
The  servants  amaz'd  are  scarce  ever  able 
To  keep  off"  their  eyes,  as  they  wait  at  the  table  ; 
And  Molly  and  I  have  thrust  in  our  nose 
To  peep  at  the  captain  in  all  his  fine  clo'es. 
Dear  madam,  be  sure  he's  a  fine-spoken  man  ; 
Do  but  hear  on  the  clergy  how  glib  his  tongue  ran ; 
And  'madam,'  says  he,  '  if  such  dinners  you  give. 
You'll  ne'er  want  for  parsons  as  long  as  you  live. 
I  ne'er  knew  a  parson  without  a  good  nose ; 
But  the  devil  's  as  v;^elcome  wherever  he  goes. 
G —  d — n  me  !  they  bid  us  reform  and  repent,^ 
But  z — ndis  !  by  their  looks  they  never  keep  Lent. 
Mister  Curate,  for  all  your  grave  looks,  Fm  afraid 
You  cast  a  sheep's  eye  on  her  ladyship's  maid  : 


230  SWIFT. 


I  wish  she  would  lend  you  her  pretty  white  hand 

In  mending  your  cassock,  and  smoothing  your  band' 

{For  the  Dean  was  so  shabby,  and  look'd  like  a  ninny. 

The  captain  supposed  he  was  curate  to  Jinny).* 

'  Whenever  you  see  a  cassock  and  gown, 

A  hundred  to  one  but  it  covers  a  clown. 

Observe  how  a  parson  comes  into  a  room  ; 

G —  d — n  nie  !  he  hobbles  as  bad  as  my  groom  ; 

A  scholar  d,  when  just  from  his  college  broke  loose. 

Can  hardly  tell  how  to  cry  bo  to  a  goose  ; 

Your  NOVEDS,  and  bluturcks,  and  omurs,  and  stuff,f 

By  G — ,  they  don't  signify  this  pinch  of  snuff. 

To  give  a  young  gentleman  right  education. 

The  army's  the  only  good  school  in  the  nation  ; 

J\Iy  schoolmaster  call'd  me  a  dunce  and  a  fool. 

But  at  cuffs  1  was  always  the  cock  of  the  school : 

I  never  could  take  to  my  book  for  the  blood  o'  me, 

And  the  puppy  confess'd  he  expected  no  good  o'  me. 

He  caught  me  one  morning  coquetting  his  wife  ; 

But  he  mauld  me,  I  ne'er  was  so  mauld  in  my  life  : 

So  I  took  to  the  road,  and,  what's  very  odd. 

The  first  man  I  robb'd  was  a  parson,  by  G — . 

Now,  madam,  you'll  think  it  a  strange  thing  to  say. 

But  the  sight  of  a  book  makes  me  sick  to  this  day.' 

"  Never  since  I  was  born  did  I  hear  so  much  icit. 
And,  madam,  I  laugh' d  till  I  thought  I  should  split 
So  then  you  look  scornful,  and  snift  at  the  Dean, 
As  who  should  say,  J\^ow  am  I  skinny  and  lean  7 
But  he  durst  not  so  much  as  once  open  his  lips, 
And  the  doctor  was  plaguily  down  in  the  hips." 
Thus  merciless  Hannah  ran  on  in  her  talk. 
Till  she  heard  the  Dean  call,  "  Will  your  ladyship  walk  I" 
Her  ladyship  answers,  "  I'm  just  coming  down  :" 
Then  turning  to  Hannah,  and  forcing  a  frown. 
Although  it  was  plain  in  her  heart  she  was  glad, 
Cry'd,  "  Hussy,  why  sure  the  wench  is  gone  mad  ! 
How  could  these  chimeras  get  into  your  brains  .' — 
Come  hither  and  take  this  old  gown  for  your  pains  ; 
But  the  Dean,  if  this  secret  should  come  to  his  ears, 
Will  never  have  done  with  his  gibes  and  his  jeers  : 
For  your  life  not  a  word  of  this  matter  I  charge  ye ; 
Give  me  but  a  barrack,  a  fig  for  the  clergy." 


*  Dr.  Jinny,  a  clergyman  in  the  neighborhood. 
t  Ovids,  Plutarchs,  and  Homers. 


SWIFT.  231 


'  The  Grand  Question  Debated.— ^^  Hamilton's  Bawn  "  was  a 
large  old  house  belonging  to  Sir  Arthur  Acheson,  Bart.,  ancestor 
of  the  Earls  of  Gosford.  His  lady  was  Anne  Savage,  daughter 
of  an  Irish  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer.  A  merry  war,  perhaps 
not  always  pleasant,  was  in  the  habit  of  passing  between  her  and 
Swift,  in  which  he  bantered  her  thinness,  and  Sir  Arthur  used  to 
take  his  part.  She  is  the  heroine  of  the  witty  but  coarse  verses, 
beginning — 

"  Sure  never  did  man  see 
A  wretch  like  poor  Nancy, 
So  teas'd  day  and  night 
By  a  Dean  and  a  Knight ; 
To  punish  my  sins 
Sir  Arthur  begins, 
And  gives  me  a  wipe 
With  Skinny  and  Snipe  : 
His  malice  is  plain, 
Hallooing  the  Dean. 
The  Dean  never  stops, 
When  he  opens  his  chops. 
I'm  quite  over-run 
With  rebus  and  pun." 

2  G —  d — n  me,  they  hid  us  reform  and  repent,  &c. — I  do  not  apolo- 
gize to  the  reader  for  repeating  these  oaths,  because  Swift's 
object  in  recording  them  was  intended  for  anything  but  approba- 
tion of  swearing — a  practice  which,  though  accused  of  having 
been  a  swearer  himself,  he  held  in  special  contempt,  and  officers 
of  the  army  (it  must  be  added)  along  with  it.  He  looked  upon 
them  as  a  set  of  ignorant  coxcombs  ;  and,  doubtless,  too  many 
such  persons  are  to  be  found  mixed  with  their  betters  in  the 
service,  especially  in  the  regiments  raised  in  the  provinces. 
The  reader  would  be  surprised  if  he  knew  how  much  ignorance 
of  common  writing  and  reading  was  betrayed  in  communications 
of  country  officers  with  head-quarters. 

Fielding  seems  to  have  had  liis  eye  on  this  passage  when  he 
introduced  his  Ensign  Northerton  in  Tom  Jones.  It  is  one  of  the 
happiest  in  Swift's  verses  j  exquisite  for  its  ease,  its  straightfor- 
wardness, its  humor,  its  succession  of  pictures,  its  maid-servant 
tone  of  mind. 


232  SWIFT. 


MARY  THE  COOK-MAID'S  LETTER  TO  DR.  SHERIDAN., 

Well,  if  ever  I  saw  such  another  man  since  my  mother  bound  my  head  ? 
You  a  gentleman .'  marry  come  up  !  1  wonder  where  you  were  bred. 

I'm  sure  such  words  do  not  become  a  man  of  your  cloth  ; 

I  would  not  give  such  language  to  a  dog,  faith  and  troth. 

Yes,  you  call'd  my  master  a  knave  :  fie,  Mr.  Sheridan  !  'tis  a  shame 

For  a  parson,  who  should  know  better  things,  to  come  out  with  such  a 

name. 
Knave  in  your  teeth,  Mr.  Sheridan  !  'tis  both  a  shame  and  a  sin  ; 
And  the  Dean,  my  master,  is  an  honester  man  than  you  and  all  your  kin : 
He  has  more  goodness  in  his  little  finger,  than  you  have  in  your  whole 

body  : 
My  master  is  a  parsonable  man,  and  not  a  spindl e- shank'' d  hoddy-doddy. 
And  now,  whereby  I  find  you  would  fain  make  an  excuse. 
Because  my  master  one  day,  in  anger,  call'd  you  a  goose ; 
Which,  and  lam  sure  I  have  been  his  servant  four  years  since  October, 
And  he  never  calVd  me  worse  than  sweetheart,  drunk  or  sober: 
Not  that  I  know  his  reverence  was  ever  concern'd  to  my  knowledge, 
Though  you  and  your  come-rogues  keep  him  out  so  late  in  your  college. 
You  say  you  will  eat  grass  on  his  grave :  a  Christian  eat  grass  ! 
Whereby  you  now  confess  yourself  to  be  a  goose  or  an  ass  : 
But  that's  as  much  as  to  say,  that  my  master  should  die  before  ye  : 
Well,  well,  that's  as  God  pleases  ;  and  I  don't  believe  thafs  a  true  story  : 
And  so  say  I  told  you  so,  and  you  may  go  tell  my  master  ;  what  care  I  ? 
And  I  don't  care  who  knov:s  it ;  'tis  all  one  to  Mary  ; 
Every  one  knows  that  1  love  to  tell  truth  and  shame  the  devil ; 
I  am  but  a  poor  servant ;  but  I  think  gentlefolks  should  be  civil. 
Besides,  you  found  fault  with  our  victuals  one  day  that  you  was  here: 
I  remember  it  was  on  a  Tuesday  of  all  days  in  the  year. 
And  Saunders  the  man  says  you  are  always  jesting  and  mocking  : 
Mary,  said  he  (one  day  as  I  was  mending  my  master's  stocking). 
My  master  is  so  fond  of  that  minister  that  keeps  the  school, 
I  thought  my  master  a  wise  man,  but  that  man  makes  him  a  fool. 
Saunders,  said  I,  I  would  rather  than  a  quart  of  ale 

He  would  come  into  our  kitchen,  and  J  would  pin  a  dish-clout  to  his  tail. 
And  now  I  must  go  and  get  Saunders  to  direct  this  letter  ; 
For  I  write  but  a  sad  scrawl  ;  but  my  sister  Marget,  she  ivrites  better.* 
Well,  but  I  must  run  and  make  the  bed,  before  my  master  comes  from 

prayers ; 
And  see  now,  it  strikes  ten,  and  I  hear  him  coming  up  stairs  ; 
Whereof  I  could  say  more  to  your  verses,  if  I  could  write  written  hand  : 
And  so  I  remain  in  a  civil  way,  your  servant  to  command, 

Mart. 


SWIFT.  233 


^  Mary  the  Cookmaid's  Letter — Dr.  Sheridan,  one  of  Swift's 
friends  and  butts,  was  a  schoolmaster  of  considerable  wit  and 
scholarship,  and  progenitor  of  a  distinguished  family,  in  which 
genius  is  hereditary.  The  closing  words  of  the  preceding  note 
will  apply  still  more  characteristically  to  the  present  etiusion. 
Swift  delighted  in  showing  his  knowledge  of  servants, — their 
phraseology,  and  ways  of  thinking:  or  rather,  perhaps,  it  should 
be  said,  that  he  delighted  in  showing  up  every  species  of  igno- 
rance and  self-importance ;  for  he  was  equally  au  fait  at  the 
small  talk  of  fine  life,  or  what  he  called  Polite  Conversation  ;  of 
which  he  has  left  a  record,  singular  for  the  quantity  of  it,  and 
startling,  nowadays,  when  we  consider  the  quality  of  the  speakers. 
But  his  satire  helped  to  reform  the  mode,  if  it  did  not  very  much 
improve  the  matter.  Common-mindedness  will  be  common- 
mindedness  always,  whether  betrayed  in  the  proverbial  slang 
which  he  drove  out  of  the  drawing-room  into  the  kitchen,  or  in 
tiie  better-bred  common-places  of  the  chatterers  of  Mrs.  Gore. 

^  For  Iwrite  but  a  sad  scrawl ;  but  my  sister  Marget,  she  writes  better. 
— This  exquisite  kind  of  irrelevancy,  which  I  have  no  doubt  is 
taken  from  the  life.  Swift  was  fond  of.  He  had  used  it  before 
with  equal,  if  not  greater  felicity,  in  the  masterly  satire  on  Nun- 
neries which  he  contributed  to  the  Tatler  (No.  32).  See  the 
passage  in  the  Essay  at  the  beginning  of  this  volume,  p.  13. 


ANCIENT  DRAMATISTS.s 

TO    DR.    SHERIDAN. 

Whate'er  your  predecessor  taught  us, 
I  have  a  great  esteem  for  Plautus  ; 
And  think  your  boys  may  gather  there-hencc 
More  wit  and  humor  than  from  Terence. 
But  as  to  comic  Aristophanes, 
The  rogue  too  vicious  and  too  prbphane  is. 
I  went  in  vain  to  look  for  Eupolis 
Down  in  the  Strand,  just  where  the  JVew  Pole  is  ;* 

*  The  fact  may  be  true,  but  the  rhyme  cost  mc  some  trouble.— Atjthor. 


234  SWIFT. 


For  I  can  tell  you  one  thing,  that  I  can 
(You  will  not  find  it  in  the  Vatican). 
He  and  Cratinus  us'd,  as  Horace  says. 
To  take  his  greatest  grandees /or  asses. 
Poets,  in  those  days,  us'd  to  venture  high  ; 
But  these  are  lost  full  many  a  century. 
Thus  you  may  see,  dear  friend,  ex  pede  hence. 
My  judgment  of  the  old  comedians. 

Proceed  to  tragics  :  first,  Euripides 
(An  author  where  I  sometimes  dip  a-days) 
Is  rightly  censured  by  the  Stagirite, 
Who  says  his  numbers  do  not  fudge  aright. 
A  friend  of  mine  that  author  despises  ^ 

So  much,  he  swears  the  very  best  piece  is,      > 
For  aught  he  knows,  as  bad  as  Thespis's  ;      j 
And  that  a  woman,  in  these  tragedies. 
Commonly  speaking,  but  a  sad  jade  is. 
At  least,  I'm  well  assur'd,  that  no  folk  lays 
The  weight  on  him  they  do  on  Sophocles. 
But,  above  all,  I  prefer  jEschyhts, 
Whose  moving  touches,  when  they  please  kill  us. 

And  now  I  find -my  muse  but  Ml  able, 
To  hold  out  longer  in  trisyllable. 
I  chose  those  rhymes  out  for  their  difficulty ; 
Will  you  return  as  hard  ones  \f  Icall  f  ye  1 

s  Ancient  Dramatists.— Swift  is  here  emulating  the   rhymes  of 
Butler. 


ABROAD  AND  AT  HOME. 

As  Thomas  was  cudgel'd  one  day  by  his  wife, 

He  took  to  the  street,  and  fled  for  his  life  : 

Tom's  three  dearest  friends  came  by  in  the  squabble, 

And  sav'd  him  at  once  from  the  shrew  and  the  rabble  ; 

Then  ventur'd  to  give  him  some  sober  advice  ; — 

But  Tom  is  a  person  of  honor  so  nice. 

Too  wise  to  take  counsel,  too  proud  to  take  warning, 

That  he  sent  to  all  three  a  challenge  next  morning  : 

Three  duels  he  fought,  thrice  ventur'd  his  life ; 

Went  home,  and  was  cudgel'd  again  by  his  wife. 


SWIFT.  .       'S35 


VERSES  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  DR.  SWIFT.^ 


As  Rochefoucault  his  maxims  drew 
From  nature,  I  believe  them  true  : 
They  argue  no  corrupted  mind 
In  him  ;  the  fault  is  in  mankind. 

This  maxim,  more  than  all  the  rest. 
Is  thought  too  base  for  human  breast : 
"  In  all  distresses  of  our  friends 
We  first  consult  our  private  ends  ; 
While  nature,  kindly  bent  to  ease  us. 
Points  out  some  circumstance  to  please  us. 

If  this  perhaps  your  patience  move. 
Let  reason  and  experience  prove. 

We  all  behold  with  envious  eyes 
Our  equals  rais'd  above  our  size. 
Who  would  not  at  a  crowded  show 
Stand  high  himself,  keep  others  low  ? 
I  love  my  friend  as  well  as  you  : 
But  why  should  he  obstruct  my  view  7 
Then  let  me  have  the  higher  post ; 
Suppose  it  but  an  inch  at  most 
If  in  a  battle  you  should  find 
One,  whom  you  love  of  all  mankind. 
Had  some  heroic  action  done, 
A  champion  kill'd,  or  trophy  won; 
Rather  than  thus  be  over-topt, 
Would  you  not  wish  his  laurels  cropt  ? 
Bear  honest  JVed  is  in  the  gout. 
Lies  rack'' d  with  pain,  and  you  without : 
How  patiently  you  hear  him  groan .' 
How  glad  the  case  is  not  your  own  ! 

What  poet  would  not  grieve  to  see 
His  brother  write  as  well  as  he  ? 
But,  rather  than  they  should  excel. 
Would  wish  his  rivals  all  in  hell  ! 

Her  end  when  emulation  misses, 
She  turns  to  envy,  stings,  and  hisses: 
The  strongest  friendship  yields  to  pride, 
Unless  the  odds  be  on  our  side. 
Vain  human  kind  !  fantastic  race  ! 
Thy  various  follies  who  can  trace  ? 
Self-love,  ambition,  envy,  pride. 
Their  empire  in  our  hearts  divide. 
Give  others  riches,  power,  and  station, 
'Tis  all  to  me  an  usurpation 


236  SWIFT. 

I  have  no  title  to  aspire  ; 
Yet,  when  you  sink,  I  seem  the  higher. 
l7i  Pope  I  cantiot  read  a  line. 
But  with  a  sigh  I  wish  it  mine. 
When  he  can  in  one  couplet  Jix 
More  sense  than  I  can  do  in  six. 
It  gives  ine  such  a  jealous  fit, 
I  cry  "  Pox  take  him  and  his  wit  T' 
I  grieve  to  be  outdone  by  Gay 
In  my  ov?n  humorous  biting  w^ay. 
Arbuthnot  is  no  inore  my  friend, 
TJ'lio  dares  to  irony  pretend. 
Which  I  was  born  to  introduce, 
Refin'd  it  lirst,  and  show'd  its  use.'' 
St.  John,  as  well  as  Pulteney,  Itnows 
That  I  had  some  repute  for  prose  : 
And,  till  they  drove  me  out  of  date, 
Could  maul  a  minister  of  state. 
If  they  have  mortified  my  pride. 
And  made  me  throw  my  pen  aside, 
If  with  such  talents  heaven  hath  bless'd  'em. 
Have  I  not  reason  to  detest 'em  .' 

To  all  my  foes,  dear  Fortune,  send 
Thy  gifts  ;  but  never  to  my  friend  : 
I  tamely  can  endure  the  first ; 
But  this  with  envy  makes  me  burst. 

Thus  much  may  serve  by  way  of  proem  ; 
Proceed  we  therefore  to  our  poem. 

The  time  is  not  remote  when  I 
Must  by  the  course  of  nature  die  ; 
When,  I  foresee,  my  special  friends 
Will  try  to  find  their  private  ends ; 
And,  though  't  is  hardly  understood 
Which  way  my  death  can  do  them  good, 
Yet  thus,  methinks,  I  hear  them  speak  : 
"  See  how  the  Dean  begins  to  break  ! 
Poor  gentleman,  he  droops  apace  ! 
You  plainly  find  it  in  his  face. 
That  old  vertigo  in  his  head 
Will  never  leave  him,  till  he's  dead. 
Besides,  his  memory  decays  : 
He  recollects  not  what  he  says  ; 
He  cannot  call  his  friends  to  mind ; 
Forgets  the  place  where  last  he  din'd  ; 
Plies  you  with  stories  o'er  and  o'er  ; 
He  told  them  fifty  times  before. 


SWIFT.  237 


How  does  he  fancj'  we  can  sit 
To  hear  his  out-of-fashion  wit  ? 
But  he  takes  up  with  younger  folks, 
Who  for  his  wine  will  bear  his  jokes. 
Faith  !  he  must  make  his  stories  shorter. 
Or  change  his  comrades  once  a  quarter. 
In  half  the  time  he  talks  them  round 
There  must  another  set  be  found. 

"  For  poetry  he's  past  his  prime  ; 
He  takes  an  hour  to  find  a  rhyme  .' 
His  fire  is  out,  his  wit  decay'd, 
His  fancy  sunk,  his  muse  a  jade. 
I'd  have  him  throw  away  his  pen : — 
But  there's  no  talking  to  some  men!" 
And  then  their  tenderness  appears 
By  adding  largely  to  my  years : 
"  He's  older  than  he  would  be  reckon'd, 
And  well  remembers  Charles  the  Second. 
He  hardly  drinks  a  pint  of  wine  ; 
And  that,  I  doubt,  is  no  good  sign. 
His  stomach,  too,  begins  to  fail : 
Last  year  we  thought  him  strong  and  hale  ; 
But  now  he's  quite  another  thing  ; 
I  ivish  he  may  hold  out  till  spring  !" 
They  hug  themselves  and  reason  thu^ : 
"  It  is  not  yet  so  bad  with  us .'" 

In  such  a  case,  they  talk  in  tropes, 
And  by  their  fears  express  their  hopes. 
Some  great  misfortune  to  portend, 
JVo  enemy  can  match  a  friend. 
With  all  the  kindness  they  profess, 
The  merit  of  a  lucky  guess 
When  daily  how-d'-ye's  come  of  course. 
And  servants  answer,  "  Worse  and  worse  !" 
Would  please  them  better,  than  to  tell 
That,  "  God  be  praised,  the  Bean  is  well." 
Then  he  who  prophesy'd  the  best, 
Approves  his  foresight  to  the  rest  ; 
"  You  know  J  always  fear'' d  the  worst. 
And  often  told  you  so  at  first." 
He'd  rather  choose  that  I  should  die. 
Than  his  predictions  prove  a  lie. 
Not  one  foretells  I  shall  recover  ; 
But  all  agree  to  give  me  over. 

Yet,  should  some  neighbor  feel  a  pain 
Just  in  the  parts  where  1  complain : 


238  SWIFT. 


How  many  a  message  would  he  send  ! 
What  hearty  prayers  that  I  should  mend! 
Inquire  what  regimen  I  kept : 
What  gave  me  ease,  and  how  I  slept  ? 
And  more  lament  when  I  was  dead, 
Than  all  the  snivellers  round  my  bed. 

Mv  good  companions,  never  fear ; 
For,  though  you  may  mistake  a  year. 
Though  your  prognostics  run  too  fast, 
They  must  be  verify'd  at  last. 

Behold  the  fatal  day  arrive  ! 
"  How  is  the  Dean  ?" — "  He's  just  alive." 
Now  the  departing  prayer  is  read  ; 
He  hardly  breathes— The  Dean  is  dead. 

Before  the  passing  bell's  begun, 
The  news  through  half  the  town  is  run. 
"  Oh  !  may  we  all  for  death  prepare  ! 
What  has  he  left  ?  and  who's  his  heir  ? 
*  I  know  no  more  than  what  the  news  is  ; 

'Tis  all  bequeath'd  to  public  uses. 
To  public  uses  .'   there's  a  whim  ! 
What  had  the  public  done  for  him  1 
Mere  envy,  avarice,  and  pride  : 
He  gave  it  all — but  first  he  died. 
And  had  the  Dean  in  all  the  nation. 
No  worthy  friend,  no  poor  relation  ? 
So  ready  to  do  strangers  good. 
Forgetting  his  own  flesh  and  blood  !" 

Now  Grub-street  wits  are  all  employ'd; 
With  elegies  the  town  is  cloy'd  : 
Some  paragraph  in  every  paper. 
To  curse  the  Dean,  or  bless  the  Draper.* 

The  doctors,  tender  of  their  fame, 
Wisely  on  me  lay  all  the  blame. 
"  We  must  confess,  his  case  was  nice  ; 
But  he  would  never  take  advice. 
Had  he  been  rul'd,  for  aught  appears. 
He  might  have  liv'd  these  twenty  years  : 
For,  when  we  open'd  him,  we  found 
That  all  his  vital  parts  were  sound." 

From  Dublin  soon  to  London  spread, 
'Tis  told  at  court,  "  The  Dean  is  dead  ;" 
And  Lady  Suffolk,  in  the  spleen. 
Runs  laughing  up  to  tell  the  Queen. 

For  the  papers  which  he  wrote  on  Irish  affairs,  under  that  title. 


SWIFT.  239 


The  Queen  so  gracious,  mild,  and  good. 
Cries,  "  Is  he  gone  !  'tis  time  he  should 
He's  dead  you  say  ;  then  let  him  rot. 
rm  glad  the  inedah*  tvere  forgot. 
I  promis'd  him,  I  own  ;  but  when  ? 
I  only  was  the  princess  then  ; 
But  now,  as  consort  of  the  king. 
You  know,  'tis  quite  another  thing." 

Now,  Chartres,  at  Sir  Robert's  levee, 
Tells  with  a  sneer,  the  tidings  heavy  ; 
"  Why,  if  he  died  without  his  shoes," 
Cries  Bob,  "  I'm  sorry  for  the  news  : 
Oh  were  the  ^vretch  but  living  still. 
And  in  his  place  my  good  friend  Will  \\ 
Or  had  a  mitre  on  his  head. 
Provided  Bolingbrokc  were  dead !" 

Now  Curll  his  shop  from  rubbish  drains: 
Three  genuine  tomes  of  Swift's  remains  ! 
And  then,  to  make  them  pass  the  glibber, 
Revis'd  bvTibbald,  Moore,  and  Gibber. 
He'll  treat  me  as  he  does  my  betters. 
Publish  my  will,  my  life,  my  letters  ; 
Revive  the  libels  born  to  die : 
Which  Pope  must  bear  as  well  as  I. 

Here  shift  the  scene,  to  represent 
How  those  I  love  my  death  lament. 
Poor  Pope  will  grieve  a  month,  and  Gay 
A  week,  and  Arbuthnot  a  day. 

St.  John  himself  will  scarce  forbear 
To  bite  his  pen,  and  drop  a  tear. 
The  rest  will  give  a  shrug,  and  cry, 
"  I'm  sorry — but  we  all  must  die  !" 

Indifference  clad  in  Wisdom's  guise. 
All  fortitude  of  mind  supplies : 
For  how  can  stony  bowels  melt. 
In  those  who  never  pity  felt  ! 
When  we  are  lash'd,  they  kiss  the  rod. 
Resigning  to  the  will  of  God. 

The  fools,  my  juniors  by  a  year. 
Are  tortur'd  with  suspense  and  fear ; 
Who  wisely  thought  my  age  a  screen, 
When  death  approach'd  to  stand  between  : 

*  "  Which  the  Dean  (he  says)  in  vain  expected,  in  return  for  a  smal 
present  he  had  sent  to  the  Princess." 

t  Sir  Robert  Walpole's  antagonist,  Pulteney. 


240  SWIFT. 


The  screen  remov'd  their  hearts  are  trembling  ; 
They  mourn  for  me  without  dissembling. 
My  female  friends,  whose  tender  hearts 
Have  better  learn'd  to  act  their  parts, 
Receive  the  news  in  doleful  dumps  : 
"  The  Dean  is  dead  :  (  Pray  what  is  trumps  7) 
Then,  Lord  have  mercy  on  his  soul ! 
{^Ladies,  Fll  venture  for  the  vole.) 
Six  Deans,  they  say,  must  bear  the  pall : 
{1  wish  I  knew  what  kiiig  to  call.) 
Madam,  your  husband  will  attend 
The  funeral  of  so  good  a  friend. 
No,  madam,  'tis  a  shocking  sight; 
And  he's  engag'd  to-morrow  night : 
My  Lady  Club  will  take  it  ill, 
If  he  should  fail  her  at  quadrille. 
He  lov'd  the  Dean — (/  lead  a  heart) 
But  dearest  friends,  they  say,  must  part. 
His  time  was  come  ;  he  ran  his  race  ; 
We  hope  he's  in  a  better  place." 
Why  do  we  grieve  that  friends  should  die  ? 
No  loss  more  easy  to  supply. 
One  year  is  past ;  a  diiferent  scene  ! 
No  farther  mention  of  the  Dean, 
Who  now,  alas  !  no  more  is  miss'd, 
Than  if  he  never  did  exist. 
Where's  now  the  favorite  of  Apollo  ? 
Departed  : — and  his  works  must  follow. 

Verses  on  the  Death  of  Dr.  Swift.— \  give  these  verses  (which 
comprise  about  half  the  original)  as  a  true  specimen  of  Swiftian 
wit  and  humor,  but  not  at  all  (some  obvious  banter  excepted)  as 
agreeing  with  the  spirit  of  them,  or  counting  them  among  the 
evidences  of  his  wisdom.  The  Dean's  prodigious  discovery,  as- 
sisted by  his  brother  wit  Rochefoucault,  just  amounts  to  this: — 
that  Nature  in  her  kindly  wisdom  has  prevented  mankind  from 
feeling  as  much  for  the  pangs  of  others  as  for  their  own  ;  and 
that  when  a  misfortune  happens  to  a  neighbor,  they  cannot,  in 
spite  of  their  condolence,  help  congratulating  themselves  on  hav- 
ing escaped  it.  There  are  exceptions, — many, — even  to  these 
conclusions  ;  and  what  do  the  conclusions  prove  ?  Why,  simply, 
that  existence  would  be  nothing  but  misery  if  human  beings  were 
otherwise  constituted ;  that  the  best  people  would  have  the  power 


SWIFT.  241 

neither  to  receive  nor  to  give  enjoyment ;  and  that  meantime  (by 
the  same  kind  providence  of  nature  against  worse  consequences) 
they  do  suffer  and  sympathize  greatly  on  occasion,  often  to  a  far 
greater  degree  than  the  author  chooses  to  think.  The  sick 
neighbor  feeling  for  the  dying  man  endures  but  half  the  anguish 
of  many  (I  do  not  say  of  all)  who  are  here  called  "  snivellers 
round  a  bed,"  and  who  would  sometimes  gladly  die  instead  of  the 
sufferer  ?  What  ?  Have  not  millions  of  lives  been  thrown  away 
for  less  things  than  love ;  and  are  we  to  be  told  by  a  loveless 
misanthrope,  girding  his  own  friends,  that  affection  never  grieves 
for  a  death  beyond  a  "month"  or  a  "  day  ?"  Nonsense.  I 
mourn  with,  and  admire  Swift,  who  was  a  great  man,  notwith- 
standing what  was  little  in  him  ;  but  (wit  excepted)  he  fell  to  the 
level  of  the  vulgar  when  he  "  sunk  in  the  spleen." 

Yet  how  handsome  the  opportunity  he  takes  of  complimenting 
Pope  and  others  at  his  own  expense,  and  how  pleasantly  it  tells 
both  against  hirn  and  for  him  ! 

7  Refin'd  it  first,  and  show'dits  use— A  bold  claim,  after  Butler  and 
all  the  other  wits  and  poets  who  excelled  in  it !  and,  indeed,  quite 
unfounded. 


12 


242  GREEN. 


GREEN. 

BORN,    1696 DIED,   1737. 


The  author  of  the  Spleen,  a  poem  admired  by  Pope,  and  quoted 
by  Johnson,  was  a  clerk  in  the  custom-house,  and  had  been  bred 
a  quaker.  He  was  subject  to  low  spirits,  and  warded  them  off 
by  wit  and  good  sense.  Something  of  the  quaker  may  be  ob- 
servable in  the  stiffness  of  his  versification,  and  its  excessive  en- 
deavors  to  be  succinct.  His  style  has  also  the  fault  of  being  oc- 
casionally obscure ;  and  his  wit  is  sometimes  more  labored  than 
finished.  But  all  that  he  says  is  worth  attending  to.  His  thoughts 
are  the  result  of  his  own  feeling  and  experience ;  his  opinions 
rational  and  cheerful,  if  not  very  lofty ;  his  warnings  against 
meddling  with  superhuman  mysteries  admirable ;  and  he  is  re- 
markable for  the  brevity  and  originality  of  his  similes.  He  is  of 
the  school  of  Butler ;  and  it  may  be  affirmed  of  him  as  a  rare 
honor,  that  no  man  since  Butler  has  put  so  much  wit  and  reflec- 
tion into  the  same  compass  of  lines. 

There  is  an  edition  of  Green's  poems  by  Dr.  Aikin,  which  de- 
serves to  be  the  companion  of  all  who  suffer  as  the  author  did, 
and  who  have  sense  enough  to  wish  to  relieve  their  sufferings  by 
the  like  exercise  of  their  reason. 

In  printing  the  following  extracts  I  have  not  adopted  the  aste- 
risks commonly  employed  for  the  purpose  of  implying  omission. 
I  always  use  them  unwillingly,  on  account  of  the  fragmentary 
air  they  give  to  the  passages ;  and  the  paragraphs  closed  up  so 
well  together  in  the  present  instance,  that  I  was  tempted  to  waive 
them.  But  the  circumstance  is  mentioned  in  order  to  prevent  a 
false  conclusion. 


GREEN.  '  243 


REMEDIES  FOR  THE  SPLEEN.' 

To  cure  the  mind's  wrong  bias,  spleen, 
Some  recommend  the  bowling-green ; 
Some  hilly  walks  :  all,  exercise  ; 
Fling  but  a  stone,  the  giant  dies. 
Laugh  and  be  well.     Monkeys  have  been 
Extreme  good  doctors  for  the  spleen  ; 
And  kittens,  if  the  humor  hit. 
Have  harlequin^ d  away  the  fit 

If  spleen  fogs  rise  at  close  of  day,      ~\ 
I  clear  my  evening  with  a  play,  > 

Or  to  some  concert  take  my  way,  3 

The  company,  the  shine  of  lights,  ^ 
The  scenes  of  humor,  music's  flights,  > 
Adjust,  and  set  the  soul  to  rights.  ) 

In  rainy  days  keep  double  guard. 
Or  spleen  will  surely  be  too  hard ; 
Which,  like  those  fish  by  sailors  met. 
Fly  highest  while  their  wings  are  wet. 
In  such  dull  weather  so  unfit 
To  enterprise  a  work  of  wit. 
When  clouds  one  yard  of  azure  sky, 
That's  fit  for  simile,  deny, 
I  dress  my  face  with  studious  looks, 
And  shorten  tedious  hours  with  books. 
But  when  dull  fogs  invade  the  head. 
That  mem'ry  minds  not  what  is  read, 
I  sit  in  window  dry  as  ark. 
And  on  the  drowning  world  remark ; 
Or  to  some  coffee-house  I  stray 
For  news,  the  manna  of  a  day. 
And  from  the  hipp'd  discourses  gather, 
That  politics  go  by  the  weather. 
Then  seek  good-humor'd  tavern  chums, 
And  play  at  cards,  but  for  small  sums  ; 
Or  with  the  merry  fellows  quaff'. 
And  laugh  aloud  with  them  that  laugh  ; 
Or  drink  a  joco-serious  cup 
With  souls  who've  took  their  freedom  up , 
And  let  my  mind,  beguil'd  by  talk. 
In  Epicurus'  garden  walk, 
Who  thought  it  heav'n  to  be  serene  ; 
Pain,  hell  ,■  and  purgatory,  spleen. 


244  GREEN. 


Sometimes  I  dress,  with  women  sit, 
And  chat  away  the  gloomy  fit ; 
Quit  the  stiff  garb  of  serious  sense, 
And  wear  a  gay  impertinence. 

Permit,  ye  fair,  your  idol-form, 
Which  e'en  the  coldest  heart  can  warm. 
May  with  its  beauties  grace  my  line. 
While  I  bow  down  before  its  shrine. 
And  your  throng'd  altars  with  my  lays 
Perfume,  and  get  by  giving  praise. 
With  speech  so  sweet,  so  sweet  a  mien. 
You  excommunicate  the  spleen, 
Which  fiend-like  flics  the  magic  ring 
You  form  tvith  sound,  when  pleas' d  to  sing. 
Whate'er  you  say,  howe'er  you  move. 
We  look,  we  listen,  and  approve. 
Your  touch,  which  gives  to  feeling  bliss. 
Our  nerves  officious  throng  to  kiss. 
By  Celia's  pat,  on  their  report. 
The  grave-air'd  soul,  inclin'd  to  sport, 
Renounces  wisdom's  sullen  pomp. 
And  loves  the  floral  game,  to  romp. 
But  who  can  view  the  pointed  rays. 
That  from  black  eyes  scintillant  blaze  .' 
Love  on  his  throne  of  glory  seems 
Encompass'd  with  satellite  beams. 
But  when  blue  eyes,  more  softly  bright. 
Diffuse  benignly  humid  light. 
We  gaze,  and  see  the  smiling  loves. 
And  Cytherea's  gentle  doves. 
And  raptur'd  fix  in  such  a  face 
Love's  mercy-seat  and  throne  of  grace. 
Shine  but  on  age,  you  melt  its  snow  ; 
Again  fires  long-extinguish'd  glow. 
And  charm'd  by  witchery  of  eyes. 
Blood  long  congealed  liquefies  ! 
True  miracle,  and  fairly  done 
By  heads  which  are  adored  while  on.^ 

Such  thoughts  as  love  the  gloom  of  night, 
I  close  examine  by  the  light ; 
For  who,  though  brib'd  by  gain  to  lie. 
Dare  sunbeam-written  truths  deny. 
And  execute  plain  common  sense 
On  faith's  mere  hearsay  evidence  ? 


GREEN.  245 


That  superstition  mayn't  create, 
And  club  its  ills  with  those  of  fate, 
I  many  a  notion  take  to  task. 
Made  dreadful  by  its  visor  mask. 
Thus  scruple,  .spasm  of  the  mind. 
Is  cur'd,  and  certainly  I  find  ; 
Since  optic  reason  shows  me  plain, 
I  dreaded  spectres  of  the  brain  ; 
And  legendary  fears  are  gone. 
Though  in  tenacious  childhood  sown. 
Thus  in  opinions  1  commence 
Freeholder  in  the  proper  sense. 
And  neither  suit  nor  service  do, 
Nor  homage  to  pretenders  show. 
Who  boast  themselves,  by  spurious  roll, 
Lords  of  the  manor  of  the  soul  ; 
Preferring  sense,  from  chin  thafs  bare. 
To  nonsense  thron'd  in  whisker'd  hair. 

Thus,  then,  I  steer  my  bark,  and  sail 
On  even  keel  with  gentle  gale ; 
At  helm  I  make  my  reason  sit. 
My  crew  of  passions  all  submit. 
If  dark  and  blust'ring  prove  some  nights. 
Philosophy  puts  forth  her  lights ; 
Experience  holds  the  cautious  glass, 
To  shun  the  breakers,  as  I  pass, 
And  frequent  throws  the  wary  lead. 
To  see  what  dangers  may  be  hid ; 
And  once  in  seven  years  I'm  seen 
At  Bath  or  Tunbridge  to  careen. 
Though  pleas'd  to  see  the  dolphins  play, 
I  mind  my  compass  and  my  way.^ 
With  store  sufficient  for  belief. 
And  wisely  still  prepar'd  to  reef, 
Nor  wanting  the  dispersive  bow'l 
Of  cloudy  weather  in  the  soul, 
I  make  (may  Heav'n  propitious  send 
Such  wind  and  weather  to  the  end) 
JVeither  beca/m'd  nor  overblown. 
Life's  voyage  to  the  world  unknown. 


'  The  disorder  here  called  the  Spleen,  was  of  old  called  Melan- 
choly, or  Hypochondria ;  then  it  became  Vapors  or  the  Hyp, 
then  the  Spleen,  then  the  Nerves  or  Low  Spirits.     The  designa- 


246  GREEN 


tion  now  varies  between  Nerves  and  Biliousness.  Melancholy- 
signifies  Black  Bile,  as  Hypochondria  does  a  region  of  the  stom- 
ach ;  and  there  is  no  doubt  that  all  the  disorders,  great  and  small, 
connected  with  low  spirits,  are  traceable  to  the  stomach  and  state 
of  digestion,  sometimes  in  consequence  of  anxiety  or  too  much 
thought,  oftener  from  excess,  and  want  of  exercise.  Too  much 
eating  (sometimes  wrongly  exchanged  for  too  little)  is  the  unro- 
mantic  cause  of  nine-tenths  of  the  romantic  melancholies  in  exist- 
ence. Your  pie-crust  is  a  greater  caster  of  shadows  over  this 
life,  than  all  the  platonical  "  prison  houses"  the  poets  talk  of. 

^  "  By  heads  which  are  ador'd  while  on." — A  felicitous  allusion  to 
the  imposture  of  St.  Januarius,  a  cheat  still  practised  at  Naples. 
Clotted  blood  is  brought  forward  in  a  vial ;  and  at  the  approach 
of  the  head  of  the  saint  it  is  pretended  to  liquefy. 

^  This  couplet  was  quoted  by  Johnson  in  the  course  of  some 
excellent  advice  given  to  Boswell. — See  his  Life,  edit.  1839,  vol. 
vii.,  p.  287. 

Boswell.  By  associating  with  you,  sir,  I  am  always  getting  an  accession 
of  wisdom.  But  perhaps  a  man,  after  knowing  his  own  character — the 
limited  strength  of  his  own  mind — should  not  be  desirous  of  having  too  much 
wisdom,  considering,  quid  valeant  humeri,  how  little  he  can  carry. 

Johnson.  Sir,  be  as  wise  as  you  can  ;  let  a  man  be  aliis  Imtus,  sapiens 
sibi : 

"  Though  pleas'd  to  see  the  dolphins  play, 
I  mind  my  compass  and  my  way." 

You  may  be  wise  in  your  study  in  the  morning,  and  gay  in  company  at  a 
tavern  in  the  evening.  Every  man  is  to  take  care  of  his  own  wisdom  and 
his  own  virtue,  without  minding  too  much  what  others  think. 


GOLDSMITH.  247 


GOLDSMITH. 

BORN,    1729. DIED,    1774. 


Goldsmith  is  so  delightful  a  writer,  that  the  general  impression 
on  his  readers  is  that  of  his  having  been  a  perfect  sort  of  man,  at 
least  for  amiableness  and  honhomie,  and  the  consequence  is, 
that  when  they  come  to  be  thoroughly  acquainted  with  his  life 
and  works,  especially  the  critical  portion,  they  are  startled  to  find 
him  partaking  of  the  frailties  of  his  species  and  the  jealousies  of 
his  profession.  So  much  good,  however,  and  honesty,  and  sim- 
plicity, and  such  an  abundance  of  personal  kindness,  still  remain, 
and  it  seems  likely  that  so  much  of  what  was  weak  in  him  origi- 
nated in  a  painful  sense  of  his  want  of  personal  address  and  at- 
tractiveness, that  all  harsh  conclusions  appear  as  ungracious  as 
they  are  uncomfortable :  we  feel  even  wanting  in  gratitude  to  one 
who  has  so  much  instructed  and  entertained  us ;  and  hasten,  for 
the  sake  of  what  is  weak  as  well  as  strong  in  ourselves,  to  give 
all  the  old  praise  and  honor  to  the  author  of  the  Vicar  of  Wake- 
field and  the  Deserted  Village.  We  are  obliged  to  confess  that 
the  Vicar,  artless  and  delightful  as  he  is,  is  an  inferior  brother 
of  Parson  Adams  ;  and  that  there  are  great  improbabilities  in  the 
story.  But  the  family  manners,  and  the  Flamboroughs,  and 
Moses,  are  all  delicious  ;  and  the  style  of  writing  perfect.  Again, 
we  are  forced  to  admit,  that  the  Traveller  and  Deserted  Village 
are  not  of  the  highest  or  subtlest  order  of  poetry  ;  yet  they  are 
charming  of  their  kind,  and  as  perfect  in  style  as  his  prose. 
Tliey  are  cabinets  of  exquisite  workmanship,  which  will  outlast 
hundreds  of  oracular  shrines  of  oak  ill  put  together.     Goldsmith's 


248  GOLDSMITH. 


most  thoroughly  original  productions  are  his  comedies  and  minor 
poems,  particularly  She  Stoops  to  Conquer,  and  the  two  pieces  of 
wit  and  humor  extracted  into  this  volume.  His  comic  writing  is 
of  the  class  which  is  perhaps  as  much  preferred  to  that  of  a  staider 
sort  by  people  in  general,  as  it  is  by  the  writer  of  these  pages, — 
comedy  running  into  farce ;  that  is  to  say,  truth  richly  colored 
and  overflowing  with  animal  spirits.  It  is  that  of  the  prince  of 
comic  writers,  Moliere  (always  bearing  in  mind  that  Moli^re 
beats  every  one  of  them  in  expression,  and  is  a  great  verse  Avriter 
to  boot).  The  English  have  no  dramatists  to  compare  in  this  re- 
spect with  the  Irish.  Farquhar,  Goldsmith,  and  Sheridan,  sur- 
pass them  all  ;   and  O'Keefe,  as  a  farce-writer,  stands  alone. 

Goldsmith,  with  all  his  imprudences,  never  forgot  the  one 
thing  needful  to  a  good  author, — the  "  Porro  unum  necessarium,'" 
— style. 

Observe  in  the  following  poems  how  all  the  words  fall  in  their 
right  places,  and  what  an  absence  there  is  of  the  unfit  and  super- 
fluous. 


RETALIATION.! 

Of  old,  when  Scarron''  his  companions  invited, 

Each  guest  brought  his  dish,  and  the  feast  was  united, 

If  our  landlord  supplies  us  with  beef  and  with  fish, 

Let  each  guest  bring  himself,  and  he  brings  the  best  dish  . 

Our  Dean3  shall  be  venison,  just  fresh  from  the  plains  ; 

Our  Burke  shall  be  tongue,  with  a  garnish  of  brains  : 

Our  Will'  shall  be  wild  fowl,  of  excellent  flavor, 

And  Dicks  with  his  pepper  shall  heighten  their  savor ; 

Our  Cumberland's  sweetbread  its  place  shall  obtain, 

And  Douglas'^  is  pudding  substantial  and  plain ; 

Our  Garrick^s  a  salad  ;  for  in  him  we  see 

Oil,  vinegar,  sugar,  and  saltness  agree  ; 

To  make  out  the  dinner  full  certain  I  am 

That  Ridge^  is  anchovy,  and  Reynolds  is  lamb. 

That  HickeyV  a  capon,  and  by  the  same  rule, 

Magnanimous  Goldsmith  a  gooseberry  fool. 

At  a  dinner  so  various,  at  such  a  repast. 

Who'd  not  be  a  glutton,  and  stick  to  the  last  ? 


GOLDSMITH.  249 


Here,  waiter,  more  wine,  let  me  sit  while  I'm  able. 
Till  all  my  companions  fall  under  the  table  ; 
Then,  with  chaos  and  blunders  encircling  my  nead, 
Let  me  ponder  and  tell  what  I  think  of  the  dead. 

Here  lies  the  good  dean,  re -united  to  earth, 
Who  mixt  reason  with  pleasure,  and  wisdom  with  mirth  : 
If  he  had  any  faults,  he  has  left  us  in  doubt ; 
At  least  in  six  weeks  I  could  not  find  'em  out ; 
Yet  some  have  declar'd,  and  it  can't  be  denied  'em, 
That  sly-boots  was  cursedly  cunning  to  hide  'em. 

Here  lies  our  good  Edmund,  whose  genius  was  such. 
We  scarcely  can  praise  it,  or  blame  it  too  much  ; 
JVho  born  for  the  universe,  narrowed  his  mind, 
.And  to  party  gave  vp  ivhat  tras  meant  for  mankitid  ; 
Though  fraught  with  all  learning,  yet  straining  his  throat 
To  persuade  Tommy  Townshend^  to  lend  him  a  vote ; 
TVho,  too  deep  for  his'hearers,  still  icent  on  refining. 
And  thought  of  convincing,  while  they  thought  of  dining  : 
Though  equal  to  all  things,  for  all  things  unfit, 
Too  nice  for  a  statesman,  too  proud  for  a  wit ; 
For  a  patriot  too  cool ;  for  a  drudge,  disobedient ; 
And  too  fond  of  the  right  to  pursue  the  expedient. 
In  short  't  was  his  fate,  unemploy'd,  or  in  place,  sir. 
To  eat  mutton  cold,  and  cut  blocks  with  a  razor^ 

Here  lies  honest  William,  whose  heart  was  a  mint, 
While  the  owner  ne'er  knew  half  the  good  that  was  in  't ; 
The  pupil  of  impulse,  it  forc'd  him  along. 
His  conduct  still  right,  with  his  arguments  wrong; 
Still  aiming  at  honor,  yet  fearing  to  roam, 
The  coachman  was  tipsy,  the  chariot  drove  home  : 
Would  you  ask  for  his  merits  ?  alas  !  he  had  none; 
What  was  good  was  spontaneous,  his  faults  were  his  own. 

Here  lies  honest  Richard,  whose  fate  I  must  sigh  at; 
Alas,  that  such  frolic  should  now  be  so  quiet ! 
What  spirits  were  his  !     What  wit  and  what  whim, 
JVow  breaking  a  jest,  and  now  breaking  a  limb  ! 
Now  wrangling  and  grumbling  to  keep  up  the  ball  ! 
Now  teazing  and  vexing,  yet  laughing  at  all  ! 
In  short  so  provoking  a  Devil  was  Dick, 
That  we  wished  hiin  full  ten  times  a  day  at  old  JVick : 
But,  missing  his  mirth  and  agreeable  vein. 
As  often  we  wished  to  have  Dick  back  again. 

Here  Cumberland  lies,  having  acted  his  parts. 
The  Terence  of  England,  the  mender  of  hearts; 
A  flattering  painter,  who  made  it  his  care 
To  draw  men  as  thev  ought  to  be,  not  as  they  are. 
12* 


250  GOLDSMITH. 


His  gallants  are  all  faultless,  his  women  divine, 
Aid  Comedy  wonders  at  being  so  fine  : 
Like  a  Tragedy  Queen  he  has  dizen'd  her  out. 
Or  rather,  like  Tragedy  giving  a  rout. 
His  fools  have  their  follies  so  lost  in  a  crowd 
Of  virtues  and  feelings,  that  folly  grows  proud ; 
And  coxcombs,  alike  in  their  failings  alone, 
Adopting  his  portraits,  are  pleas'd  with  their  own 
Say,  where  has  our  poet  this  malady  caught  ? 
Or,  wherefore  his  characters  thus  without  fault? 
Say,  was  it  that  vainly  directing  his  view 
To  find  out  men's  virtues,  and  finding  them  few. 
Quite  sick  of  pursuing  each  troublesome  elf. 
He  grew  lazy  at  last,  and  so  drew  from  himself  ? 

Here  Douglas  retires  from  his  toils  to  relax. 
The  scourge  of  impostors,  the  terror  of  quacks ; 
Come,  all  ye  quack  bai'ds,  and  ye  quacking  divines. 
Come  and  dance  on  the  spot  where  your  tyrant  reclines 
When  satire  and  censure  encircled  his  throne, 
I  fear'd  for  your  safety,  I  fear'd  for  my  own  ; 
But  now  he  is  gone,  and  we  want  a  detector, 
Our  Dodds"  shall  be  pious,  our  Kendricks'^  shall  lecture ; 
Macpherson'^  write  bombast,  and  call  it  a  style. 
Our  Townshends  make  speeches,  and  I  shall  compile ; 
New  Lauders  and  Bowers  the  Tweed  shall  cross  over. 
No  countryman  living  their  tricks  to  discover  : 
Detection  her  taper  shall  quench  to  a  spark. 
And  Scotchman  ineet  Scotchman,  and  cheat  in  the  dark. 

Here  lies  David  Garrick,  describe  me  who  can. 
An  abridgment  of  all  that  was  pleasant  in  man; 
As  an  actor,  confest  without  rival  to  shine ; 
As  a  wit,  if  not  first,  in  the  very  first  line  : 
Yet  with  talents  like  these,  and  an  excellent  heart, 
The  man  had  his  failings,  a  dupe  to  his  art; 
Like  an  ill -judging  beauty,  his  colors  he  spread. 
And  beplaster'd  with  rouge  his  own  natural  red. 
On  the  stage  he  was  natural,  simple,  affecting ; 
'  Twas  only  that  when  he  was  off,  he  was  acting. 
With  no  reason  on  earth  to  go  out  of  his  way. 
He  turn'd  and  he  varied  full  ten  times  a  day  : 
Though  secure  of  our  hearts,  yet  confoundedly  sick. 
If  they  were  not  his  own  by  finessing  and  trick. 
He  cast  off  his  friends,  as  a  huntsman  his  pack. 
For  he  knew  when  he  pleas'd  he  could  whistle  them  back. 
Of  praise  a  mere  glutton,  he  swallow'd  what  came. 
And  the  puff  of  a  dunce  he  mistook  it  for  fame ; 


GOLDSMITH.  251 


THll  his  relish  grown  callous  almost  to  disease, 

WTio  pepper^ d  the  highest,  was  surest  to  please. 

But  let  us  bo  candid,  and  speak  out  our  mind, 

If  dunces  applauded,  he  paid  them  in  kind. 

Ye  Kenricks,  ye  Kellys,"  and  Woodl'alls'^  so  grave. 

What  a  commerce  was  yours,  while  you  got  and  you  gave  ? 

How  did  Grub  Street  re-echo  the  shouts  that  you  rais'd. 

While  he  was  be-Roscius'' d,  ^.nd  you  were  be-prais'd  7 

But  peace  to  his  spirit,  wherever  it  flies. 

To  act  as  an  angel,  and  mix  with  the  skies  ; 

Those  poets  who  owe  their  best  fame  to  his  skill, 

Shall  still  be  his  flatterers,  go  where  he  will ; 

Old  Shakspeare,  receive  him  with  praise  and  with  love, 

And  Beaumonts  and  Bens  be  his  Kellys  above. 

Here  Hickey  reclines,  a  most  blunt,  pleasant  creature, 
And  slander  itself  must  allow  him  good-nature  ; 
He  cherish'd  his  friends,  and  he  relish'd  a  bumper ; 
Yet  one  fault  he  had,  and  that  one  was  a  thumper. 
Perhaps  you  may  ask  if  the  man  v^'as  a  miser  : 
I  answer,  no,  no,  for  he  always  was  wiser  : 
Too  courteous,  perhaps,  or  obligingly  flat .' 
His  very  worst  foe  can't  accuse  him  of  that : 
Perhaps  he  confided  in  men  as  they  go. 
And  so  was  too  foolishly  honest  ?  ah  no  ! 
Then  what  was  his  failing  .-'  come,  tell  it  and  burn  ye, — 
He  was,  could  he  help  it  1  a  special  attorney. 

Here  Reynolds  is  laid,  and  to  tell  you  my  mind. 
He  has  not  left  a  wiser  or  better  behind. 
His  pencil  was  striking,  resistless,  and  grand  ; 
His  manners  were  gentle,  complying,  and  bland ; 
Still  born  to  improve  us  in  every  part, 
His  pencil  our  faces,  his  manners  our  heart ; 
To  coxcombs  averse,  yet  most  civilly  steering, 
^         When  they  judg'd  without  skill,  he  was  still  out  of  hearing  : 
When  they  talk'd  of  their  Raphaels,  Correggios  and  stuff. 
He  shifted  his  trumpet,  and  only  took  snuff. ^'^ 

'  "  First  printed  in  1774,  after  the  author's  death.  Dr.  Gold- 
smith, and  some  of  his  friends,  occasionally  dined  at  St.  James's 
Coffee-house.  One  day  it  was  proposed  to  write  epitaphs  on  him. 
His  country  dialect,  and  person,  furnished  subjects  of  witticism. 
He  was  called  on  for  Retaliation,  and,  at  the  next  meeting,  pro- 
duced the  poem." — (Note  in  old  edition.) 


252  GOLDSMITH. 


^  Scarron,  the  famous  French  wit,  who  was  so  poor  that  his 
friends  made  a  pic-nic  of  their  dinners  at  his  house. 

^  Dr.  Barnard,  Dean  of  Derry,  in  Ireland,  afterwards  Bishop 
of  Limerick,  and  of  Killaloe. 

*  William  Burke. 

*  Richard  Burke. 

*  Dr.  afterwards  Bishop  Douglas,  who  detected  the  forgeries  of 
Lauder's  pretended  plagiarism,  and  Bower's  History  of  the- Popes. 

''  A  gentleman  at  the  Irish  bar. 

^  An  eminent  attorney. 

®  The  once  famous  statesman. 

'°  Burke's  digestion  was  delicate,  and  cold  mutton  his  standing 
dish. 

"  Dr.  Dodd,  the  unhappy  clergyman. 

'"  Dr.  Kenrick,  a  petty  author,  and  troublesome  critic  of  that 
day. 

'^  The  famous  compiler  of  Ossian. 

'*  Hugh  Kelly,  author  of  some  clever  sentimental  comedies,  of 
the  success  of  which  Goldsmith  condescended  to  be  jealous. 

*  William  Woodfall,  printer  of  the  Morning  Chronicle. 

'®  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  was  so  deaf  as  to  be  under  the  neces- 
sity  of  using  an  ear-trumpet. 


THE  HAUNCH  OF   VENISON. 

A    POETICAL    KPISTLE    TO    LORD    CLARE,   1765. 

Thanks,  my  lord,  for  your  venison;  for  finer  or  fatter 

Ne'er  rang'd  in  a  forest,  or  smok'd  in  a  platter  ; 

The  haunch  was  a  picture  for  painters  to  stud}'. 

The  fat  was  so  white,  and  the  lean  was  so  ruddy. 

Though  my  stomach  was  sharp  I  could  scarce  help  regretting 

To  spoil  such  a  delicate  picture  hy  eating  ; 

I  had  thoughts  in  my  chamber  to  place  it  in  view. 

To  be  shown  to  my  friends  as  a  piece  of  virtit  : 

As  in  some  Irish  houses,  where  things  are  so-so. 

One  gammon  of  bacon  hangs  up  for  a  show: 


GOLDSMITH.  253 


But  for  eating  a  rasher  in  what  you  take  pride  in. 
They'd  as  soon  think  of  eating  the  pan  it  is  fry'd  in. 
But  hold — let  me  pause — don't  I  hear  you  pronounce 
This  tale  of  the  bacon's  a  damnable  bounce  ? 
Well,  suppose  it  a  bounce — sure  a  poet  may  try 
By  a  bounce  now  and  then  to  get  courage  to  fly. 

But,  my  lord,  it's  no  bounce  ;  I  protest  in  my  turn, 
Ifs  a  truth,  and  your  lordship  may  ask  Mr.  Burn.' 
To  go  on  with  my  tale  : — as  I  gazed  on  the  haunch 
I  thought  of  a  friend  that  was  trusty  and  staunch  ; 
So  [  cut  it,  and  sent  it  to  Reynolds  undrest 
To  paint  it,  or  eat  it,  just  as  he  lik'd  best. 
Of  the  neck  and  the  breast  I  had  next  to  dispose, 
'Twas  a  neck  and  a  breast  that  might  rival  Monroe's. 
But  in  parting  with  these  I  was  puzzled  again. 
With  the  how,  and  the  who,  and  the  where,  and  the  when. 

There's  H d,and  C y,  and  H rth,  and  H ff, 

I  think  they  love  venison — I  know  they  love  beef. 

There's  my  countryman  Higgins — Oh  !  let  him  alone 

For  making  a  blunder  or  picking  a  bone : 

But  hang  it — to  poets  who  seldom  can  eat. 

Your  very  good  mutton's  a  very  good  treat ; 

Such  dainties  to  send  them  their  health  it  might  hurt, 

IVs  like  sending  them  ruffles  when  wanting  a  shirt. 

While  thus  I  debated  in  reverie  centr'd. 

An  acquaintance,  a  friend  as  he  call'd  himself,  enter'd; 

An  under-bred  fine-spoken  fellow  was  he. 

And  he  smil'd  as  he  look'd  at  the  venison  and  me. 

"  What  have  we  got  here  .' — why  this  is  good  eating  ! 

Your  own,  I  suppose or  is  it  in  waiting  ?" 

"  Why,  whose  should  it  be  .""  cried  I  with  a  flounce, 
"  I  get  these  things  often  :"  (but  that  was  a  bounce) 
"  Some  lords  my  acquaintance,  that  settle  the  nation, 
Are  pleas'd  to  be  kind ;  but  I  hate  ostentation." 

"  If  that  be  the  case  then,"  cried  he,  very  gay, 
"  I'm  glad  I  have  taken  this  house  in  my  way. 
To-morrow  you  take  a  poor  dinner  with  me  ; 
No  words — I  insist  on't — precisely  at  three  ; 
We'll  have  Johnson  and  Burke  ;  all  the  wits  will  be  there , 
My  acquaintance  is  slight,  or  I'd  ask  my  Lord  Clare. 
And  now  that  I  think  on't,  as  I  am  a  sinner. 
We  wanted  this  venison  to  make  out  the  dinner  ! 
What  say  you — a  pasty  ;  it  shall,  and  it  must ; 
And  my  wife,  little  Kitty,  is  famous  for  crust. 


254  GOLDSMITH. 


Here,  porter — this  venison  with  me  to  Mile-end ; 
No  stirring,  I  beg,  my  dear  friend,  my  dear  friend." 
Thus  snatching  his  hat,  he  brush'd  off' like  the  wind, 
And  the  porter  and  eatables  foUow'd  behind. 

Left  alone  to  reflect,  having  emptied  my  shelf, 
And  "  nobody  with  me  at  sea  but  myself,'"' 
Though  I  could  not  help  thinking  my  gentleman  hasty. 
Yet  Johnson,  and  Burke,  and  a  good  venison  pasty, 
Were  things  that  I  never  dislik'd  in  my  life. 
Though  clogg'd  with  a  coxcomb  and  Kitty  his  wife. 
So  next  day  in  due  splendor  to  make  my  approach, 
I  drove  to  his  door  in  my  own  hackney  coach. 

When  come  to  the  place  where  we  all  were  to  dine 
(A  chair-lumber'd  closet,  just  twelve  feet  by  nine). 
My  friend  made  me  welcome,  but  struck  me  quite  dumb 
With  tidings  that  Johnson  and  Burke  would  not  come  ; 
"  For  I  knew  it,"  he  cried  ;  "  both  eternally  fail. 
The  one  with  his  speeches  and  t'other  with  Thrale ; 
But  no  matter.     I'll  warrant  we'll  make  up  the  party 
With  two  full  as  clever,  and  ten  times  as  hearty. 
The  one  is  a  Scotsman,  the  other  a  Jew, 
They're  both  of  them  merry,  and  authors  like  you. 
The  one  writes  the  '  Snarler,'  the  other  the  '  Scourge  ;' 
Some  thinks  he  .writes  '  Cinna' — he  owns  to'  Panurge.'  " 
While  thus  he  described  them  by  trade  and  by  name, 
They  enter'd,  and  dinner  was  serv'd  as  they  came. 

At  the  top  a  fried  liver  and  bacon  were  seen, 
At  the  bottom  was  tripe  in  a  swinging  tureen ; 
At  the  sides  there  was  spinage  and  pudding  made  hot ; 
In  the  middle  a  place  where  the  pasty  '  was  not. 

Now,  ray  lord,  as  for  tripe,  it's  my  utter  aversion. 
And  your  bacon  I  hate  like  a  Turk  or  a  Persian : 
So  there  I  sat  stuck,  like  a  horse  in  a  pound. 
While  the  bacon  and  liver  went  merrily  round : 
But  what  vex'd  me  most,  was  that  d — n'd  Scottish  rogue. 
With  his  long-winded  speeches,  his  smiles  and  his  brogue. 
And  "  Madam,"  quoth  he,  "  may  this  bit  be  my  poison, 
A  prettier  dinner  I  never  set  eyes  on : 
Pray  a  slice  of  your  liver  ;  though,  may  I  be  curst. 
But  I've  eat  of  your  tripe  till  I'm  ready  to  burst," 

"  The  tripe  !"  quoth  the  Jew,  with  his  chocolate  cheek, 
"  I  could  dine  on  this  tripe  seven  days  in  the  week  : 


GOLDSMITH.  255 


/  like  these  here  dinners  so  pretty  and  small ; 
But  your  friend  there,  the  doctor,  eats  nothing  at  all." 

"  Oh,  oh  !"  quoth  my  friend,  "  he'll  come  on  in  a  trice. 
He's  keeping  a  corner  for  something  that's  nice  : 

There's  a  pasty" "  A  pasty  !"  repeated  the  Jew; 

•'  I  don't  care  if  I  keep  a  corner  for't  too." 

"  What  the  de'il,  mon,  a  pasty  !"  re-echo'd  the  Scot; 

"  Though  splitting,  I'll  still  keep  a  corner  for  that." 

"  We'll  all  keep  a  corner"  the  lady  cried  out ; 

"  We'll  all  keep  a  corner,"  was  echo'd  about. 

While  thus  we  resolv'd,  and  the  pasty  delay'd. 

With  looks  that  quite  petrified,  enter'd  the  maid  ; 

A  visage  so  sad,  and  so  pale  with  affright, 

Wak'd  Priam  in  drawing  his  curtains  by  night. 

But  we  quickly  found  out,  for  who  could  mistake  her  .' 

That  she  came  with  some  terrible  news  from  the  baker  : 

And  so  it  turn'd  out;  for  that  negligent  sloven 

Had  shut  out  the  pasty  on  shutting  his  oven. 

Sad  Philomel  thus — but  let  similes  drop — 

And  now  that  I  think  on't,  the  story  may  stop. 

To  be  plain,  my  good  lord,  it's  but  labor  misplac'd. 

To  send  such  good  verses  to  one  of  your  taste ; 

You've  got  an  odd  something — a  kind  of  discerning — 

A  relish,— a  taste — sicken'd  over  by  learning; 

At  least,  it's  your  temper,  as  very  well  known, 

That  you  think  very  slightly  of  things  all  your  own : 

So,  perhaps,  in  your  habits  of  thinking  amiss. 

You  may  make  a  mistake,  and  think  slightly  of  this. 

Lord  Clare's  nephew. 

A  passage  in  the  love-letters  of  the  then  Duke  of  Cumberland 
(George  the  Third's  brother)  to  Lady  Grosvenor,  which  were 
making  a  great  noise  at  the  time. 


2 


256  WOLCOT. 


W  0  L  C  0  T  . 

(PETER    PINDAR.) 
BORN,    1738 — DIED,    1819. 


WoLCOT  was  successively  a  clergyman,  a  physician,  a  pensioner 
on  the  booksellers,  and,  it  is  said,  on  government.  He  had  a 
taste  for  painting ;  introduced  his  countryman  Opie  to  the  world  ; 
and  lived  to  a  hale  old  age,  mirthful  to  the  last  in  spite  of  blind- 
ness. He  was  a  genuine  man  of  his  sort,  though  his  sort  was 
not  of  a  very  dignified  species.  There  does  not  seem  to  have 
been  any  real  malice  in  him.  He  had  not  the  petty  spite  and 
peevishness  of  his  antagonist  Giftbrd  ;  nor,  like  him,  could  have 
constituted  himself  a  snarler  against  his  betters  for  the  pay  of 
greatness.  He  attacked  greatness  itself,  because  he  thought  it 
could  afford  the  joke ;  and  he  dared  to  express  sympathies  with 
the  poor  and  outcast.  His  serious  poems,  however,  are  nothing 
but  common-places  about  Delias  and  the  Muse.  Nor  have  his 
comic  ones  the  grace  and  perfection  which  a  sense  of  the  serious 
only  can  bestow.  Wolcot  had  an  eye  for  little  that  was  grave 
in  life,  except  the  face-makings  of  absurdity  and  pretension ;  but 
these  he  could  mimic  admirably,  putting  on  at  one  and  the  same 
time  their  most  nonchalant  and  matter-of-course  airs,  while  he 
fetched  out  into  his  countenance  the  secret  nonsense.  He  echoes 
their  words,  with  some  little  comment  of  approval,  or  change  in 
their  position ;  some  classical  inversion,  or  exaltation,  which  ex- 
poses the  pretension  in  the  very  act  of  admitting  it,  and  has  an 
irresistibly  ludicrous  effect.  But  these  points  have  been  noticed 
in  the  Introductory  Essay. 


WOLCOT.  257 


Peter  wrote  a  good  deal  of  trash,  even  in  his  humorous  pieces : 
for  they  were  composed,  like  the  razors  in  one  of  his  stories,  "  to 
sell."  But  his  best  things  are  surpassed  by  no  banter  in  the 
language.  I  am  sorry  its  coarseness  prevents  my  repeating  the 
story  of  the  Pilgrims  and  the  Peas  ;  the  same  objection  applies  to 
passages  of  the  Lousiad ;  and  there  are  circumstances  in  the 
history  of  George  the  Third,  which  would  render  it  unbecoming 
to  extract  even  the  once  harmless  account  of  his  Majesty's  Visit 
to  Whitbread's  Brewhouse.  I  have  therefore  confined  myself  to 
Pindar's  other  very  best  thing, — his  versification  of  passages  in 
Boswell  and  Thrale, — masterly  for  its  facility  and  straightfor- 
wardness, which  doubles  the  effect  of  the  occasional  mock-heroic 
inversions.  To  compare  great  things  with  small,  and  show  that 
I  commend  nothing  strongly  which  has  not  had  a  strong  effect  on 
myself,  I  can  say,  that  Lear  does  not  more,  surely  move  me  to 
tears,  or  Spenser  charm  me,  than  I  am  thrown  into  fits  of  laugh- 
ter when  I  hear  these  rhyming  Johnsoniana.  I  can  hardly,  now 
this  moment,  while  writing  about  them,  and  glancing  at  the  copy 
which  lies  before  me,  help  laughing  to  myself  in  private.  This 
is  not  a  good  preface  to  a  joke ;  but,  if  anybody  can  afford  it,  I 
think  it  is  Peter. 


CONVERSATION  ON  JOHNSON,  BY  MRS.  PIOZZI  (THRALE)  AND 

MR.  BOSWELL. 

Madame  Piozzi. — Dear  Doctor  Johnson  was  in  size  an  ox. 
And  from  his  Uncle  Jlndreio  learned  to  box, 
A  man  to  wrestlers  and  to  bruisers  dear. 
Who  kept  the  ring  in  Smithfield  a  whole  year. 
The  Doctor  had  an  Uncle,  too,  ador'd 
By  jumping  gentry,  call'd  Cornelius  Ford  ; 
JVliojump'd  in  boots,  which  jumpers  never  choose. 
For  as  a  famous  jumper  jump' d  in  shoes. 

Bozzy. — When  Foote  his  leg,  by  some  misfortune,  broke, 
Says  I  to  Johnson,  all  by  way  of  joke, 
"  Sam,  sir,  in  paragraph  will  soon  be  clever, 
And  take  off  Peter  better  now  than  ever."' 
On  which,  says  Johnson,  without  hesitation, 
"  George*  will  rejoice  at  P^oote's  depeditation." 


258  WOLCOT. 


On  which,  says  I,  a  penetrating  elf! 

"  Doctor,  Fm  sure  you  coin'd  that  word  yourself." 

The  Doctor  own'd  to  me  I  had  divin'd  it. 

For,  bona  fide,  he  had  really  coin'd  it. 

"  And  yet,  of  all  the  words  I've  coin'd  (says  he), 

My  Dictionary,  sir,  contains  but  three." 

Mad.  Piozzi. — The  Doctor  said,  "  In  literary  matters, 
A  Frenchman  goes  not  deep — ne  only  smatters  ; 
Then  ask'd,  what  could  be  hop'd  for  from  the  dogs. 
Fellows  that  liv'd  eternally  on  frogs  ? 

Bozzy. — In  grave  procession  to  St.  Leonard's  College, 
Well  stufi''d  with  every  sort  of  useful  knowledge. 
We  stately  walk'd  as  soon  as  supper  ended ; 
The  landlord  and  the  waiter  both  attended  ; 
The  landlord,  skill'd  apiece  of  grease  to  handle. 
Before  us  march'd,  and  held  a  tallow  candle : 
A  lantern  (some  fam'd  Scotsman  its  creator) 
With  equal  grace  was  carried  by  the  waiter. 
Next  morning  from  our  beds  we  took  a  leap, 
And  found  ourselves  much  better  for  our  sleep. 

Mad.  Piozzi. — In  Lincolnshire,  a  lady  show'd  our  friend 
A  grotto  that  she  wish'd  him  to  commend. 
Quoth  she,  "  How  cool  in  summer  this  abode  !" 
"  Yes,  madam  (answered  Johnson), /or  a  toad." 

Bozzy. — Between  old  Scalpa's  rugged  isle  and  Rasay's, 
The  wind  was  vastly  boisterous  in  our  faces  ; 
'Twas  glorious  Johnson's  figure  to  set  sight  on — 
High  in  the  boat  he  look'd  a  noble  Triton .' 
But  lo  !  to  damp  our  pleasure  Fate  concurs. 
For  Joe,  the  blockhead,  lost  his  master's  spurs  ; 
This  for  the  Rambler's  temper  was  a  rubber, 
TVho  wonder'd  Joseph  could  be  such  a  lubber. 

Mad.  Piozzi. — I  ask'd  him  if  he  knock'd  Tom  Osborn  down,' 
As  such  a  tale  was  current  through  the  town  :— 
Says  I,  "  Do  tell  me.  Doctor,  what  befell."— 
"  Why,  dearest  lady,  there  is  naught  to  tell : 
I  ponder'd  on  the  properest  mode  to  treat  hira — 
The  dog  was  impudent,  and  so  I  beat  him .' 
Tom,  like  a  fool,  proclaim'd  his  fancied  wrongs  ; 
Others  that  1  belabored,  held  their  tongues." 


WOLCOT.  259 


Did  any  one  that  heiwas  happy  cry — 
Johnson  would  tell  him  plumply,  't  was  a  He. 
A  lady  told  him  she  was  really  so ; 
On  which  he  sternly  answer'd,  "  Madam,  no! 

Sickly  you  are,  and  ugly foolish,  poor  ; 

And  therefore  can't  be  happy,  I  am  sure. 

'T  would  make  a  fellow  hang  himself,  whose  ear 

Were  from  such  creatures  forc'd  such  stuff  to  hear." 

Bozzy. — I  wonder'd  yesterday,  that  one  John  Hay, 
Who  serv'd  as  Cicerone  on  the  way, 
Should  fly  a  man-of-war — a  spot  so  blest — 
A  fool !  nine  months,  too,  after  he  was  prest. 
Quoth  Johnson,  "  No  man,  sir,  would  be  a  sailor. 
With  sense  to  scrape  acquaintance  with  a  jailor." 

Mad.  Piozzi. — I  said  I  lik'd  not  goose,  and  mention'd  why  ;— 
One  smells  it  roasting  on  the  spit,  quoth  I. 
"  You,  Madam,"  cry'd  the  Doctor,  with  a  frown, 
"  Are  always  gorging — stuffing  somethirig  down. 
Madam,  't  is  very  nat'ral  to  suppose, 
If  in  the  pantry  you  will  poke  your  nose. 
Your  maw  with  ev'ry  sort  of  victuals  swelling. 
That  you  must  want  the  bliss  of  dinner-smelling, 

Bozzy. — Once  at  our  house,  amidst  our  Attic  feast  a. 
We  likeiVd  our  acquaintances  to  beasts  ; 
As,  for  example,  some  to  calves  and  hogs, 
And  some  to  bears  and  monkeys,  cats  and  dogs  ; 
We  said  {which  charm'd  the  Doctor  much  no  doubt). 
His  mind  was  like  of  elephants  the  snout,  " 

That  could  pick  pins  up,  yet  possess'd  the  vigor 
For  trimming  well  the  jacket  of  a  tiger. 

Mad.  Piozzi. — Dear  Doctor  Johnson  left  off  drinks  fermented. 
With  quarts  of  chocolate  and  cream  contented  ; 
Yet  often  down  his  throat's  enormous  gutter. 
Poor  man  !  he  pour'd  a  flood  of  melted  butter  ! 

Bozzy. — With  glee  the  Doctor  did  my  girl  behold  ; 
Her  name  Veronica,  just  four  months  old. 
This  name  Veronica,  a  name  though  quaint, 
Belong'd  originally  to  a  saint ; 
But  to  my  old  great  grandam  it  was  giv'n — 
As  fine  a  woman  as  e'er  went  to  heav'n  ; 


260  WOLCOT. 


And  what  must  add  to  her  importance,  much. 

This  lady's  genealogy  was  Dutch. 

The  man  who  did  espouse  this  dame  divine 

Was  Alexander,  Earl  of  KincardiTie  ; 

Who  poured  alo7ig  my  body,  like  a  sluice, 

The  noble,  noble,  noble  blood  of  Bruce  ! 

Jlnd  ivho  that  own'd  this  blood  could  well  refuse 

To  make  the  world  acquainted  with  the  news  ? 

But  to  return  unto  my  charming  child — 

About  our  Doctor  Johnson  she  was  wild  ; 

And  when  he  left  off  speaking,  she  would  flutter. 

Squall  for  him  to  begin  again,  and  sputter  ; 

And  to  be  near  him  a  strong  wish  expressed. 

Which  proves  he  was  not  such  a  horrid  beast. 

Her  fondness  for  the  Doctor  pleas'd  me  greatly. 

On  which  I  loud  exclaim'd,  in  language  stately, 

J\''ay,  if  I  recollect  aright,  I  swore, 

rd  to  her  fortune  add  five  hundred  more. 

Mad.  Piozzi. — In  ghosts  the  Doctor  strongly  did  believe. 
And  pinn'd  his  faith  on  many  a  liar's  sleeve. 
He  said  to  Doctor  Lawrence,  "  Sure  I  am, 
I  heard  my  poor  dear  mother  call  out  '  Sam,' 
I'm  sure,"  said  he,  "  that  I  can  trust  my  ears ; 
And  yet,  my  mother  had  been  dead  for  years." 

Bozzy. — When  young  ('twas  rather  silly  I  allow), 
Much  was  I  pleas'd  to  imitate  a  cow. 
One  time  at  Drury  Lane  with  Doctor  Blair, 
My  imitations  made  the  playhouse  stare ! 
5^0  very  charming  was  I  in  my  roar. 
That  both  the  galleries  clapp'd  and  cried  "  Encore." 
Blest  by  the  general  plaudit  and  the  laugh, 
I  tried  to  be  a  jack-ass  and  a  calf: 
But  who,  alas  .'  in  all  things  can  be  great  ? 
In  short,  I  met  a  terrible  defeat ; 
So  vile  I  bray'd  and  bellow'd,  I  was  hiss'd  ; 
Yet  all  who  knew  me  wonder'd  that  Imiss'd. 
Blair  whisper'd  me,  "  You've  lost  your  credit  now  ; 
Stick,  Boswell,  for  the  future,  to  the  Cow." 

'  Peter  Garrick,  who  had  a  wooden  leg.  He  was  brother  of 
the  actor. 

°  "  George"  was  George  Faulkner  the  printer,  who  prose- 
cuted  Foote  for  lampooning  him. 


WOLCOT.  261 


'  Osborne  the  bookseller.  Johnson,  while  in  poor  circum- 
stances, had  been  employed  by  him.  The  melancholy  author 
happened  to  be  guilty  of  one  of  those  delays,  which  are  some- 
times occasioned  to  conscientious  men  by  the  wish  to  do  their 
best.  Osborne,  who  had  no  understanding  for  such  refined 
motives,  broke  out  into  a  coarse  strain  of  abuse,  such  as  the  trade 
would  now  be  ashamed  of;  and  Johnson  was  so  provoked,  that 
happening  to  have  one  of  the  man's  folios  in  his  hands  at  the 
moment,  he  knocked  him  down  with  it. 


THE    END. 


XJMIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNlis. 

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